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OF  CALIFORNIA 

PRESENTED  BY 

PROF.  CHARLES  A.  KOFOID  AND 
MRS.  PRUDENCE  W.  KOFOID 


P&^^yJi^&e^U^k. 
I 


Ok,    ,- 


BIRD-LAND   ECHOES 


BY  CHARLES  CONRAD  ABBOTT 


Uniform  with  Bird-Land  Echoes 

THE  BIRDS  ABOUT  US 

Illustrated.      lamo.     Cloth,  $2.00 

OTHER  WORKS  BY  DR.  ABBOTT 

TRAVELS  IN  A  TREE-TOP 
I2mo.     Cloth,  $1.25 

RECENT   RAMBLES 

OR,    IN    TOUCH    WITH    NATURE 

Illustrated.      I2mo.      Cloth,  $2.00 

A   COLONIAL  WOOING 

izmo.      Cloth,  $1.00 

"Dr.  Abbott  is  a  kindred  spirit  with  Bur- 
roughs and  Maurice  Thompson,  and,  we 
might  add,  Thoreau,  in  his  love  for  wild  na- 
ture, and  with  Olive  Thome  Miller  in  his  love 
for  the  birds.  He  writes  without  a  trace  of 
affectation,  and  his  simple,  compact,  yet  pol- 
ished style  breathes  of  out-of-doors  in  every 
line." — New  York  Churchman 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 

PHILADELPHIA 


0 


Vj 


BIRD-LAND    ECHOES 


BY 
CHARLES  CONRAD  ABBOTT,  M.D. 

Author  of  "  Recent  Rambles,"  "  Travels  in  a  Tree- 
Top,"  "The  Birds  About  Us,"  "A 
Colonial  Wooing,"  etc. 


WITH    ILLUSTRATIONS    BY 

WILLIAM  EVERETT  CRAM 


PHILADELPHIA 

J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY 
1896 


¥,..  L 


COPYRIGHT,  1896, 

BY 
J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY. 


ELECTROTYPED  AND  PRINTED  BY  J.  B.  LIPPINCOTT  COMPANY,  PHILADELPHIA,  U.S.A. 


K  -  Q  L  U  74 


>  w 
CONTENTS. 


PAGB 

INTRODUCTION 13-15 

CHAPTER  I. 

THE   INSPIRING   SPARROWS. 

Early  morning  —  Song-sparrow — "  Chippy" — Bay- winged 
Bunting,  or  Vesper-sparrow — Swamp-sparrow — Savanna 
Sparrow — Chewink — Sharp-tailed  Finch — Foxie  Sparrow 
— Snow-birds  — Peabody-bird  — Pine-finch  —  Snow-bunt- 
ing— Lapland  Long-spur — Cross-bills — Pine  Grosbeak  .  17-55 

CHAPTER   II. 

WAITING    FOR   WARBLERS. 

Red-polled  Warbler— Black-throated  Blue  Warbler— Chest- 
nut-sided Warbler  —  Black-and- White  Tree-creeping 
Warbler  —  Yellow-rumped  Warbler,  or  Myrtle-bird  — 
Black-throated  Green  Warbler — Pine-creeping  Warbler 
—  Oven-bird  —  Maryland  Yellow-throat  —  Redstart :  Its 
song,  habits,  and  nesting ;  no  longer,  if  ever,  a  forest 
bird 56-81 

CHAPTER   III. 

THE   MASTERS    OF    MELODY. 

Absence  of  birds  from  many  localities ;  thoughtlessness  of 
farmers — English  Sparrow — Robin — Cat-bird — Thrasher 
— Wood-thrush — Hermit  Thrush 82-101 

CHAPTER   IV. 

PROFESSIONAL   AND   AMATEUR. 

Curious  and  misleading  popular  names  given  to  our  com- 
mon   birds  — Pewee  — Wood-pewee  — Kingbird  —  Great- 
crested  Flycatcher  —  Olive-sided  Flycatcher  —  Vireos  — 
i*  5 


6  CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Red-eyed  Vireo — Philadelphia  Vireo — Swallows — White- 
bellied  Swallow  —  Barn-swallow  —  Night-hawk  —  Whip- 
poorwill 102-126 

CHAPTER   V. 

OUR  OLD-GARDEN    BIRDS. 

An  old  village  garden — Baltimore  Oriole,  or  Hang-nest — 
Bluebird — Cedar-bird — Cuckoos — House-wren — Winter- 
wren — White-bellied  Nuthatch — Red-bellied  Nuthatch 
— Shrike  —  Golden-crowned  Kinglet  —  Carolina  Wren  : 
Its  vivacity  and  intelligence 127-148 

CHAPTER  VI. 

BY  MILL-POND  AND   MEADOW. 

An  old  mill-pond :  Changes  caused  by  it  in  condition  of 
surrounding  neighborhood — Meadow-lark — Kingfisher — 
Garrulous  old  miller — Red-winged  Blackbirds — Wood- 
thrush's  song — Cranes — Night-heron — Green  Heron — 
Bittern — Buffle-headed  Duck — Black  Duck — Gallinule — 
Coot — Eared  Grebe — Gull — Tern — Loon 149-175 

CHAPTER   VII. 

"MORE   NOISE   THAN    MUSIC." 

The  drumming  or  tapping  of  Woodpeckers  :  When  musical 
—  Brown  Tree-creeper  —  Nuthatches  —  Golden-winged 
Woodpecker  :  Anecdote  of — Yellow-bellied  Woodpecker 
— Downy  Woodpecker — Hairy  Woodpecker  —  Black- 
backed  Three-toed  Woodpecker 176-186 

CHAPTER   VIII. 

WHERE   RUNS   THE   TIDE. 

Killdeer  Plover — English  Snipe — Teeter  Tiltup — Solitary 
Sand-piper — Upland  Plover — Yellow-legs — Sanderling — 
"Peeps" 187-209 

CHAPTER   IX. 

A    FEW    FEATHERED    FIENDS. 

Birds  of  prey  in  general :  Their  prominence  in  winter — 
Harrier — Sharp-shinned  Hawk — Cooper's  Hawk — Red- 


CONTENTS.  7 

PAGE 

tailed  Hawk — Black  Hawk,  or  Rough-legged  Falcon  : 
' «  Feather-boots' ' —  Sparrow-hawk  —  Hawk-owl — Marsh- 
owl — Long-eared  Owl — Barred  Owl — Saw-whet  Owl — 
Screech  or  Little  Red  Owl — Great  Horned  Owl — Snowy 
Owl 210-240 

CHAPTER    X. 

WITH   THE  WINTER   BIRDS. 

Birds  during  and  after  snow-storms — Chickadee — Blue-jay 
— Crested  Tit — Carolina  Wren — Tree-sparrows — Kinglet 
— Open  water  about  springs  in  winter — Turtles — Story 
of  a  "king"  turtle — Frozen  river — Black  Hawk — Win- 
ter sunrise — Horned  Larks — Redpolls — Ruffed  Grouse — 
Conclusion 241-263 

INDEX 265-270 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS. 


English  Snipe Frontispiece. 

Hermit  Thrush 16 

Song-sparrow 21 

Vesper-sparrow 25 

Chipping  Sparrow 27 

Swamp-sparrow 29 

Savanna  Sparrow 32 

Chewink 34 

Foxie  Sparrow 37 

Snow-bird 39 

Peabody-bird 45 

Pine-finch 46 

Snow-bunting  and  Lapland  Long-spur 49 

Cross-bills 51 

Pine  Grosbeak 53 

Black-and- White  Tree-creeping  Warbler 60 

Yellow-rumped  Warbler 61 

Chestnut-sided  Warbler 65 

Black-throated  Green  Warblers 67 

Pine-creeping  Warbler 68 

Oven-bird 7° 

Maryland  Yellow-throat 74 

Redstarts 77 

Robin 85 

Cat-birds .  9* 

Thrasher - .    .  95 

Wood-thrush 97 

Wood-pewee 105 

Kingbird 109 

Olive-sided  Flycatcher "4 

Philadelphia  Vireo "6 

White-bellied  Swallow 120 

9 


io  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

PAGE 

Barn-swallow 121 

Night-hawk 124 

Baltimore  Oriole 129 

Bluebird 132 

Cedar-bird 135 

Cuckoo .    .  136 

House-wren 137 

Nuthatches  :  Red-bellied  and  White-bellied 142 

Shrike 143 

Golden-crowned  Kinglet 145 

Winter-wren 146 

Meadow-lark 151 

Kingfisher 154 

Red-winged  Blackbird 157 

Green  Herons         159 

Night-heron 161 

Bittern      164 

Black  Duck 167 

Buffle-headed  Duck 169 

Eared  Grebe 170 

Herring  Gull 171 

Tern 172 

Loon 174 

Golden- winged  Woodpecker 177 

Downy  Woodpecker ,    .    .    .    .  181 

Yellow-bellied  Woodpecker 183 

Black-backed  Three-toed  Woodpecker 185 

Teeter  Tiltup 191 

Solitary  Sand-piper 194 

Upland  Plover 197 

Yellow-legged  Tattler 199 

Sanderling 202 

"Peep" 203 

Harrier 213 

Sharp-shinned  Hawk 218 

Cooper's  Hawk 221 

Red-tailed  Hawk 223 

Rough-legged  Falcon 226 

Sparrow-hawk 228 

Long-eared  Owl 230 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  11 

PAGE 

Saw-whet  Owl 232 

Barred  Owl 233 

Screech-owl 237 

Horned  Owl 239 

Chickadee .243 

Blue-jay 245 

Horned  Lark  and  Redpoll 258 

Ruffed  Grouse     ,  262 


INTRODUCTION. 


I  LOVE  all  birds,  whether  they  are  commonplace 
or  rare,  stupid  or  entertaining,  gentle  or  vicious, 
large  or  small.  They  make  alive  the  earth  and  the 
air  as  does  no  other  class  of  living  creatures.  The 
water  may  teem  with  fish,  the  grass  with  frogs,  the 
trees  with  squirrels,  the  air  with  butterflies,  and  yet 
we  may  look  upon  all  this  with  half-hearted  interest, 
if  not  positive  indifference.  Any  one  of  these  forms 
of  life  may  command  our  attention  for  the  time,  but 
we  cannot  live  among  them  for  weeks  without  weary- 
ing. It  is  not  so  with  birds.  Whether  the  fierce 
eagle  that  defies  the  sun  or  homely  sparrow  in  the 
weedy  hedge,  the  clamorous  gull  above  the  ocean's 
roar  or  whistling  sand-piper  tripping  by  the  brook, 
alike  they  draw  us  to  them  ;  they  bid  us  pause, 
whatever  our  occupation  at  the  time ;  no  rut  so 
deep  but  they  can  divert  our  thoughts  from  it ;  we 
never  tire  of  listening  and  looking.  Both  eye  and 
ear  revel  in  what  the  wild  bird  does  and  says.  In  a 
manner,  we  can  comprehend  all  other  forms  of  life  ; 
the  bird  is  the  one  great  mystery  of  creation. 

Even  those  most  prominent  in  our  daily  walks  do 
not  become   monotonous.      The  sparrows  that  we 

2  13 


14  INTRODUCTION. 

saw  yesterday  and  have  seen  for  years  are  as  charm- 
ing to-day.     With  ever  new  delight  we  watch 

With  what  hot  haste  they  tumble  headlong  through 
The  tangled  vines  and  long  grass  wet  with  dew  ; 
In  madcap  chase  rise  to  the  outer  air, 
Glint  in  the  sunshine,  singing  everywhere. 

To  treat  of  the  ornithology  of  a  few  acres  and  yet 
group  the  birds  ''geographically"  rather  than  "sys- 
tematically" may  seem  somewhat  of  a  vagary,  and 
it  remains  with  the  reader  to  decide  whether  this 
method  be  the  wiser  one  ;  but  I  have  long  thought 
that  a  literally  natural  system  is  that  which  is  the 
daily  experience  of  those  who  live  in  the  country, 
and  the  plan  has  much  to  commend  it.  There  is  no 
spot  but  is  the  favorite  one,  not  of  a  single,  but  of 
several  wholly  unrelated  species,  and,  just  as  the 
sportsman  speaks  of  the  "  reed"  and  "  rail"  of  the 
meadows,  I  have  grouped  the  birds  of  the  mill-pond, 
the  lowlands,  the  fields,  the  woods,  and  even  the  dusty 
highways.  Birds  that  voluntarily  associate  are  not 
separated  in  the  mind  of  him  who  takes  a  quiet  stroll 
of  a  summer  evening  or  rambles  during  his  vacation 
days. 

What  the  birds'  status  is  in  the  hand-books  mat- 
ters little  to  most  people,  not  even  if,  to  further  befog 
the  subject,  a  "  quadrinomial  nomenclature  for  elu- 
cidating identification"  be  attached  thereto.  There 
is  happily  a  wide-spread  impression  that  birds  are 
something  more  than  mere  "specimens"  whereupon 
distorting  taxidermy  has  exercised  its  appalling  lack 
of  skill.  Even  the  alien  sparrows  of  the  streets  give 


INTRODUCTION.  1 5 

the  lie  to  museums,  or  people  might  well  turn  from 
ornithology  with  feelings  akin  to  disgust.  As  it  is, 
the  woods,  fields,  mountain-sides,  and  river-valleys 
tell  another  and  a  charming  story,  of  which,  I  would 
be  glad  to  think,  the  pages  that  follow  give  back  a 
faint  echo. 

However  this  may  prove,  the  portraits  of  birds 
here  given,  from  the  skilful  hand  of  my  friend  Wil- 
liam Everett  Cram,  tell  their  own  story.  They  are 
speaking  likenesses  that  call  for  no  explanatory  text 

CHARLES  CONRAD  ABBOTT. 
THREE  BEECHES,  January  19,  1896. 


:-' 


Hermit  Thrush.     (See  page  101.) 


BIRD-LAND    ECHOES. 


CHAPTER   I. 

THE   INSPIRING   SPARROWS. 

I  STAND  tiptoe  upon  the  edge  of  the  morning 
and  overlook  an  unawakened  world.  The  old 
oaks  are  dimly  gray  as  dungeon  walls.  The  prowl- 
ing opossum  and  wily  weasel  have  long  since  finished 
their  nightly  rounds  and  every  flying  squirrel  is  asleep 
in  his  home-tree.  It  is  neither  night  nor  day,  but 
those  intervening  moments  when  we  fancy  there  is  a 
hush  before  the  new  activities  commence.  A  spar- 
row yawns  as  I  brush  against  its  roosting-place,  and 
a  drawling  chirp  dribbles  from  its  beak.  There  is 
no  repetition  of  the  sound,  and  doubtless  the  bird's 
head  is  again  under  its  wing.  For  once  I  am  ahead 
of  time,  and  arrange  my  plans,  but  am  cut  down  in 
my  pride  by  a  robin,  as  usual,  that  has  stolen  a 
march  on  me,  and  now  his  ringing  cry  struggles 
earthward  through  the  misty  air.  The  bird  is 
as  yet  a  mere  matter  of  sound,  and  eyes  go  for 
b  i*  17 


1 8  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

nothing.  Do  these  ever-present  thrushes  know  our 
purposes,  and  sit  up  all  night  that  they  may  antici- 
pate us  ?  I  have  never  yet  whistled  to  my  dog  be- 
fore some  robin  has  whistled  to  the  wind.  But 
better  next  to  the  head  than  at  the  tail  of  the  pro- 
cession. I  had  come  out  this  misty,  warm,  un- 
seasonable December  morning  to  see  at  closer  hand 
the  many  sparrows  that  had  thronged  the  hedges 
and  tangled  nooks  and  corners  of  neglected  fields 
the  day  before.  As  day  drew  on  apace  they  threw 
off  their  sleepiness,  and  everywhere  the  quiet  country 
trembled  with  the  melody  of  their  united  voices. 
There  were  sparrows  from  the  mountains  that  had 
come  to  winter  with  us ;  there  were  others  that 
prefer  these  old  haunts  of  mine  to  any  other  spot, 
and,  be  it  cold  as  ice  or  hot  as  the  summer's  sun 
can  make  it,  are  never  driven  from  their  nesting 
sites.  Here  and  there  was  an  overstaying  bird,  its 
fellows  generally  having  gone  southward  weeks  be- 
fore, and  one  great  flock  of  thistle-finches,  in  coats 
as  rusty  as  dead  leaves,  held  to  the  tree-tops  as  if 
ever  on  the  lookout  for  news  to  convey  to  their 
hedge-haunting  cousins  ;  but  I  did  not  see  that  the 
latter  regarded  them  as  sentinels.  It  was  essentially 
a  sparrow  day,  such  as  I  have  often  seen  before,  but 
never  to  such  excellent  advantage. 

The  sun,  like  a  tarnished  silver  disk,  shone  through 
a  veiling  of  ashen  clouds.  The  all-pervading  light 
came  apparently  directly  from  the  frost-encrystalled 
ground,  and  there  were  no  shadows.  Not  a  leaf 
stirred  of  those  still  clinging  to  the  trees  nor  skeleton 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  19 

of  a  last  summer's  weed  bent  to  the  passing  breeze. 
Silence  everywhere,  save  when  dispelled  by  the  fitful 
chirping  and  twittering  of  the  birds.  It  proved  to 
be  a  model  winter  day,  but  because  of  this  do  not 
think  I  had  but  to  walk  up  to  any  one  or  all  of  these 
sparrows  and  bid  them  "good-morning."  They  are 
never  disposed  to  hold  direct  communication.  Your 
experience  is  likely  to  be,  at  best,  but  a  long  cata- 
logue of  glimpses,  and  it  depends  upon  yourself 
how  much  of  the  bird's  doings  you  have  gathered 
in  the  fraction  of  a  minute.  Your  patience  is  sorely 
tried ;  but  if  you  have  pluck,  the  scattered  observations 
can  be  collected  in  your  hours  of  reflection,  and  at 
last  you  will  be  able  to  assert  with  confidence  whether 
it  was  a  song-sparrow  or  a  tree-sparrow  that  seemed 
to  walk  on  three  legs  through  the  air,  so  limb-like  was 
the  motion  of  the  tail.  When  you  can  command 
the  use  of  both  eyes  and  ears  the  initial  problem 
of  identification  becomes  much  easier.  Not  that 
every  utterance  can  be  recognized,  beyond  the  bald 
fact  that  it  is  a  bird-note.  Widely  differing  species 
chirp  and  chatter  in  essentially  the  same  way,  and 
sometimes  the  unthinking  rambler  may  be  looking 
for  a  bird  when  a  little  tree-toad  is  sounding  the 
clear  call  that  lures  him  on. 

This  host  of  sparrows  this  morning  were  full  of 
life,  and  what  were  they  doing?  It  is  a  natural 
question,  for  usually  you  do  not  find  birds  idle  ;  but, 
like  many  another  inquiry,  more  easily  asked  than 
answered.  They  were  pre-eminently  restless.  At 
first  I  thought  it  was  but  a  loose  flock  that  came 


20  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

and  went,  but  this  was  not  the  case.  There  was  a 
continual  accession  of  individuals  and  a  stream  of 
departing  birds  having  a  southward  drift.  There 
was  nothing  of  a  migratory  character  in  this,  for, 
though  I  write  now  of  a  mid-December  day,  it  is  as 
likely  to  be  witnessed  a  month  or  two  months  later 
as  now.  These  birds  simply  come  and  go.  Here 
to-day  and  gone  to-morrow  is  the  burden  of  the 
rambler's  field-notes,  if  not  of  the  songs  of  the  birds 
as  they  flit  by  you. 

Finding  a  comfortable  seat,  I  awaited  their  coming, 
for  pursuit  is  fruitless  even  when  practicable  ;  but 
here  the  briers  were  too  thick-set  for  human  progress. 
That  the  birds  were  hungry  seemed  probable  from 
the  fact  that  most  of  them  were  on  the  ground  and 
the  scratching  among  dead  leaves  was  clearly  heard. 
The  vesper-sparrows  that  all  summer  long  had  en- 
livened every  upland  field  were  now  in  friendly  asso- 
ciation with  the  white-throats  and  a  few  snow-birds, 
seeking  food  in  a  thicket  where  they  had  never  ven- 
tured before.  No  foe  was  visible,  yet  at  the  call  of 
some  bird  in  the  open  or  tall  tree  above  they  would 
rise  at  the  same  instant  and  gather  in  the  bushes. 
Then  I  could  see  what  species  had  assembled  there, 
but  before  the  task  of  enumeration  was  complete 
not  one  of  them  would  be  seen.  As  quickly  as  they 
came  they  returned.  It  might  have  proved  mo- 
notonous at  last,  but  there  came  all  the  glow  of 
summer  through  this  winter  sunshine  when  a  song- 
sparrow,  leaving  the  merry  company,  perched  on  a 
little  beech  and  sang  that  same  sweet  song  that 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


21 


brightened  even  the  May  mornings  when  every  bird 
was  at  its  best  I  have  often  wondered  why  it  is 
that  this  sparrow  forever  retains  the  warmth  of 
summer  in  its  heart,  while  all  its  cousins  change 
with  the  seasons,  and,  while  merry  at  spring-tide,  are 
contemplative,  if  not  positively  gloomy,  on  the  ap- 
proach of  winter.  There  is  no  key,  perhaps,  where- 
with to  unlock  the  mystery,  so  let  it  rest  Suffice  it 


Song-sparrow. 

to  know  that,  though  the  hedge  is  leafless,  there  is 
beauty  still  lingering  somewhere  about  the  bare 
twigs,  and  the  sparrow  discovers  it  and  proclaims  it, 
even  in  the  face  of  the  cruellest  blast  of  the  heartless 
north  wind.  There  is  no  variation  in  the  song ;  no 
less  emphasis  in  December  than  in  June ;  at  all 
times  it  finds  the  world  is  good  enough  and  worthy 
of  all  praise.  Translate  this  song,  if  you  will,  put- 
ting it  into  your  own  language  with  all  your  cunning, 


22  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

but  never  can  you  find  one  syllable  that  is  not  a  note 
of  gladness,  a  hymn  of  thanksgiving.  Wherever  the 
song-sparrow  may  wander,  whenever  it  is  moved  to 
sing,  it  has  but  one  grand  theme, — the  grandest, 
whether  of  men  or  birds, — "  peace  on  earth." 

Strangers,  however  brilliant,  should  never  over- 
shadow your  life-long  friends.  Usually  they  do,  it 
is  sad  to  think,  but  not  always  ;  and  never  a  new- 
comer, whether  but  a  transient  guest  or  a  summer- 
long  visitor  among  the  moving  mass  of  north-bound 
migrating  birds,  ever  thrust  the  song-sparrow  into  the 
shade.  I  hold  well  in  mind  that  as  the  year  rolls  on 
those  marked  celebrities  of  the  melodious  host  will 
command  greater  attention,  and  we  will  stand  in 
wide-eyed  wonder  as  their  marvellous  songs  rouse 
the  sleepy  echoes  in  old  woods  or  ring  out  in  mad- 
cap merriment  over  sunny  fields  ;  but  never  will  those 
earlier,  anticipatory  notes  of  the  steadfast  song- 
sparrow  be  forgotten.  They  told  of  what  was  coming 
when  it  was  yet  frosty  March  or  dull,  damp,  dreary 
April.  Our  faith  was  roused  (and  it  needs  continual 
prodding),  and  that  is  something  of  greater  worth 
than  anything  of  which  an  accomplished  task  can 
ever  boast  The  song-sparrow  in  the  role  of  a 
prophet  fills  a  larger  space  than  the  expounder  of 
what  is  transpiring.  The  present  is  ever  the  one 
thought  of  the  thrush  or  the  rose-breast,  but  the 
unpretending  sparrow  has  had  a  faith-inspiring 
glimpse  of  the  future  and  sings  of  it  in  fullest  con- 
fidence ;  and  when,  some  bright  May  morning,  the 
orchard  is  in  all  its  glory  there  is  not  one  bird  of 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  23 

the  many  hundreds  that  more  gleefully  greets  the 
rosy  blossoms.  It  is  not  less  glad  because  it  had  a 
clearer  vision  of  their  coming.  The  constant  song- 
sparrow  ;  that  best  describes  it.  It  was  faithful  when 
few  besides  had  faith  ;  and  now,  when  the  apple- 
blossoms  have  fallen,  it  sings  no  less  cheerfully.  The 
summer's  heat  may  drive  it  from  the  upland  fields, 
but  it  finds  the  world  pleasant  in  the  cooler  mead- 
ows ;  and  where  the  scarlet  lobelia  stands,  a  pillar 
of  fire,  upon  the  swift  brook's  grassy  brim,  lighting 
up  the  weedy  wilderness  about  it,  there  the  same 
sweet  song  is  uttered  in  all  its  earnestness.  The 
falling  leaf  of  October's  frosty  days  brings  it  no 
gloomy  thoughts.  As  we  gather  the  hazel-nuts 
along  the  hill-foot  hedge  we  hear  the  same  clear 
notes  ringing  through  the  hazy,  golden  sunshine  of 
the  Indian  summer,  keeping  time  to  the  dropping 
of  dark-brown  nuts.  With  the  first  snow  there  is 
the  same  burst  of  gladness,  a  rejoicing  that  jolly 
winter  with  all  his  sport  has  come  at  last ;  and  with 
the  last  storm  of  the  season  the  sparrow  sounds  the 
good  news  that  winter  is  ready  to  depart  and  spring 
is  on  the  way.  Blessed  song-sparrows,  that  ought  to 
keep  the  whole  earth  in  excellent  humor,  full  of 
faith  and  of  an  ever-abiding  hope ! 

As  already  mentioned,  we  have  many  sparrows, 
resident  and  visitors,  some  of  the  latter  coming  only 
for  the  summer,  others  to  spend  the  winter,  and  not 
one  but  has  marked  features  of  its  own.  The  little 
"  chippy,"  for  instance,  that  is  at  home  even  in  large 
towns,  if  there  are  shade-trees  in  the  streets  ;  the 


24  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

field-sparrow  that  tinkles  a  silver  bell  from  the  day 
of  its  arrival  to  the  very  hour  of  its  departure,  and 
more  than  once  I  have  heard  in  midwinter  an  over- 
staying bird  ;  and  the  grasshopper-finch  that  only 
chirps  like  the  tzit-tzit  of  a  cricket,  and  far  oftener 
runs  through  the  grass  like  a  mouse  than  takes  a 
bold  flight  above  the  weeds  and  fences.  In  these 
same  fields  there  is  yet  another  sparrow  that,  once 
pointed  out  to  you,  you  can  never  mistake.  As  it 
flies  the  white  feathers  on  the  sides  of  the  tail  show 
very  plainly,  and  the  chances  are  that,  if  you  are  walk- 
ing in  a  lane  or  along  some  quiet  country  by-road, 
the  bird  will  run  before  you,  keeping  in  one  rut,  and, 
while  very  near,  will  always  remain  just  out  of  reach, 
sometimes  for  many  minutes  together.  Then,  at 
times,  it  will  change  its  tactics  and  flit  along  from 
post  to  post  of  the  old  fence,  until  you  wonder  it 
does  not  get  tired  and  dive  into  the  grass  and  hide. 
It  does  this  at  times,  and  no  sparrow  knows  the  fields 
better  or  rejoices  in  them  more,  as  evidenced  by  the 
sweet  song  that  it  utters  when  perched  upon  some 
low  bush  or  its  favorite  mullein-stalk. 

This  sparrow  has  a  long  list  of  names,  as  bay- 
winged  bunting,  grass-finch,  rut-runner,  and  vesper- 
sparrow.  The  last  I  like  better  than  all  others,  not 
because  the  bird  is  peculiarly  associated  with  the 
evening,  for  there  are  many  species  that  have  a 
strong  fancy  for  the  gloaming.  The  vesper-sparrow 
is  lively  enough  at  noontide  ;  but  if  you  chance  to 
stroll,  some  summer  evening,  over  the  fields  soon 
after  sundown,  when  birds  generally  are  settling 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


down  for  the  night,  you  will  hear  the  clear  notes 
that  blend  so  admirably  with  the  hushed  surround- 
ings. It  is  a  charming  "  good-night"  that  touches 
the  heart  and  brings  you  into  closer  contact  with 
nature.  Much  has  been  written  concerning  the 


song  of  the  vesper-bird,  but  verbal 
description,  however  elaborate,  fails 
to  convey  any  satisfactory  impres- 
sion of  these  wild  songs  without  words.  Those 
who  are  familiar  with  the  notes  of  the  song-sparrow 
will  recognize  a  marked  general  resemblance,  yet 
the  two  songs  are  not  likely  to  be  confounded. 
The  difference  between  the  morning  and  evening 
song  of  the  vesper-sparrow  is  not  so  much  a  reality, 
I  think,  as  has  been  asserted,  but  rather  the  same 
utterance  gives  us  a  different  impression  at  the  close 
of  day  from  that  received  if  we  hear  the  bird  at 
sunrise.  The  atmosphere  in  the  evening  seems  to 
B  3 


26  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

strain  out  every  trace  of  harshness  in  the  song,  and 
we  have,  as  so  rarely  happens,  music  set  free.  But 
is  this  not  true  of  many  another  bird's  song?  Even 
the  simple  notes  of  the  wood-pewee  that  are  posi- 
tively tiresome  at  noonday  have  a  soothing  sweet- 
ness at  nightfall  that  stays  our  steps  and  bids  us 
listen  for  their  repetition. 

Here  the  vesper-sparrow  is  a  resident  bird  as  well 
as  migratory,  and  those  that  stay  throughout  the 
winter  are  not  mute  even  when  the  mercury  ranges 
low.  How  often,  after  a  storm,  when  the  sky  was 
darkly  blue  and  the  ground  glistened  with  its  cover- 
ing of  snow,  have  I  seen  the  vesper-sparrow,  un- 
daunted by  the  glare  of  the  mid-day  sun,  perch  upon 
a  crisp  outreaching  weed,  and  heard  its  thanksgiving 
as  it  rang,  bell-like,  in  the  still  air !  Only  the  cut- 
ting blasts  of  the  north  or  east  wind  seem  to  silence 
them,  although  they  are  now  no  such  songsters  as  in 
summer.  These  birds  forsake  the  fields  only  while 
the  storms  or  high  winds  last.  Where  they  seek 
shelter  at  such  times  I  am  not  sure,  but  no  bird  is 
more  prompt  to  return  when  quiet  reigns  again. 

Vesper-sparrows  nest  upon  the  ground  and  in  the 
fields, — off  in  the  middle  of  the  fields  at  that, — 
and  not  among  the  weeds  along  the  fences.  At 
least,  this  is  the  sum  of  my  experience,  which  is  all 
that  concerns  me.  It  is  silly  to  lay  down  any  law 
concerning  birds.  They  would  laugh  at  us  did  they 
know  it,  for  no  creatures  have  stronger  wills  and 
exercise  them  more  capriciously.  He  who  has  not 
seen  many  a  contradictory  bird  has  had  indifferent 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  27 

opportunities  or  has  not  the  knack  of  seeing  them 
aright.  Too  often  a  bird  is  shot  on  sight  and  its 
habits  are  guessed  at  It  is  even  down  in  many 
bird-books  that  the  vesper-sparrow  is  not  one  of  our 
winter  species.  But  let  us  back  to  the  birds.  The 
song-sparrows  build  near  my  house, — so  near,  some- 
times, that  the  shutters  shake  their  nesting  sites  ;  the 
"  chippy"  takes  to  our  door-yard  trees  and  bushes, 
and  over  the  fence,  in  every  field,  the  vesper-bird 
and  grasshopper-finch  and  field-sparrow  stay  and  are 


Chipping  Sparrow. 


glad  all  summer,  and  the  first  named  all  the  year  ; 
and  when  it  tires  of  grass  and  weedy  growths,  trips 
lightly  up  and  down  the  dusty  road,  always  happy, 
ever  tuneful. 

I  have  spoken  frequently  of  door-yard  ornithology, 
but  it  is  possible  to  bring  the  subject  still  nearer 
home,  and  speak  of  door-step  birds.  This  may  be 
overstepping  the  mark,  but  the  dear  little  chestnut- 
crowned  "  chippy"  comes  very  near  to  being  a  tame 
wild  bird.  I  believe  that,  were  it  not  for  cats,  it  would 
freely  feed  from  the  window-sill,  if  not  enter  our 


28  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

doors.  In  this  bird  we  have  an  instance  of  a  creat- 
ure winning  its  way  to  our  regard  without  any  effort 
on  its  part  other  than  the  general  loveliness  of  its 
disposition.  It  performs  no  great  feats  of  flight  like 
the  swallow  ;  it  builds  no  conspicuous  nest  like  the 
oriole  ;  it  sings  but  the  simplest  ditty  of  all  our  birds  ; 
but  it  does  come  to  our  doors  ;  it  does  salute  us  with 
a  cheerful  song ;  it  offers  to  be  friendly,  and  so  wins 
our  hearts.  A  homely  little  bird,  I  admit,  but  do 
our  best  friends  always  resemble  Apollo  Belvidere  or 
Venus  Anadyomene ?  "But  it  don't  sing,"  whines 
some  poor  town-cooped  mortal  who  has  seen  no 
birds  beyond  a  caged  canary  or  a  broiled  chicken. 
So  much  the  better.  Is  there  no  music  in  a  child's 
prattling  or  the  merry  laugh  of  congregated  young 
people  or  the  shout  of  a  boy  just  out  of  school? 
In  all  our  language  there  is  no  such  abused  word  as 
"music."  Ask  the  old  man  who  hears  a  "chippy" 
for  the  first  time  in  twenty  years,  and,  as  he  listens, 
sees  the  old  homestead  as  plainly  as  his  hands  before 
him, — ask  him  if  there  is  music  in  the  simple  song 
of  this  little  sparrow,  and  he  will  give  you  the  truest 
possible  definition  of  the  word. 

Turning  in  another  direction  to  where  there  are 
meadows  instead  of  fields  and  marshy  tracts  with 
quicksands  and  all  manner  of  treacherous  bogs  and 
tangled  growths  that  hide  half-stagnant  water ;  here, 
with  wildness  everywhere,  many  a  gentle  bird  finds 
a  congenial  home.  In  truth,  there  is  nothing  for- 
bidding in  these  waste  places.  Although  unsuited 
to  man's  needs  as  a  home  or  as  land  to  cultivate, 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


29 


they  are  not  unsuited  to  his  disposition  as  a  rambler, 
and  it  is  upon  no  fool's  errand  that  you  go  if  you 
follow  the  swamp-sparrow  wheresoever  it  may  lead 
you.  I  have  in  mind  the  long-weathered  stump  of 
an  old  water-birch  that  once  was  a  landmark  in  the 
mucky  meadow  at  home.  The  tall  cat-tail  and  wild 
rice  and  rose-mallow  clustered  about  it  in  summer, 


Swamp-sparrow. 

and  here,  or  as  near  as  I  could  get,  I  would  often 
stop  to  hear  the  swamp-sparrow  that  made  it  his 
favorite  outlook  and  sang  his  few  pretty  notes  which, 
as  all  agree,  are  most  appropriately  watery  notes  : 
drops  of  water  that,  falling,  break  into  music.  It 
is  useless  to  hunt  or  fight  even  for  similes.  It  is 
enough  to  know  that  the  swamp-sparrow  pleases  all 
who  listen.  Just  how  and  in  what  measure  one 

3* 


3O  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

must  determine  for  himself;  and  let  those  remain  in 
ignorance  who  will  not  go  to  the  birds,  for  no  book 
about  birds  or  bird-music  can  be  more  than  a  finger- 
post pointing  out  the  way.  If  any  are  satisfied'  with 
such  meagre  details  they  are,  to  put  it  mildly,  much 
to  be  pitied. 

The  swamp-sparrow  usually  has  a  little  territory 
quite  to  itself,  so  far  as  other  sparrows  are  concerned. 
A  single  pair  will  settle  in  some  cozy  spot  and  go  the 
daily  rounds  of  tree,  bush,  and  weedy  wilderness  of 
the  marsh,  and  have  birds  of  far  different  kinds 
wherewith  to  associate.  There  will  likely  be  marsh- 
wrens  and  red-winged  blackbirds  for  a  time,  and  the 
noisy  king-rail  and  sly  least  bittern  and  transient 
visitors  from  the  uplands,  but  the  sparrows  will  keep 
their  distance  unless  a  drought  upsets  all  nature's 
plans  and  drives  every  creature  that  can  travel  so  far 
to  where  there  is  yet  some  moisture.  At  such  a  time 
the  swamp-sparrow  is  lost  in  a  crowd  and  doubtless 
ill  at  ease.  But  we  need  not  consider  abnormal  con- 
ditions. Our  bird  is  at  its  best  from  April  to  No- 
vember, and  then  those  who  are  interested  had 
better  seek  its  acquaintance.  Perhaps  when  the  nest 
is  finished — a  simple  structure  placed  upon  the 
ground — and  the  eggs  are  laid  the  bird  is  more  full  of 
vim  and  music  than  before  or  later.  At  this  time  there 
are  noticed  a  strength  and  volume  of  sound  in  the 
simple  song  that  make  the  listener  doubtful  for  the 
moment  if  the  bird  singing  is  really  the  swamp- 
sparrow.  Later  in  the  summer  this  ecstatic  effort  is 
less  seldom  heard,  even  when  a  late  brood  is  raised, — 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  31 

and  sometimes  I  have  found  the  nest  with  eggs  after 
the  first  week  in  August ;  and  a  month  later  these 
young  birds  are  killed  by  the  dozens  when  the 
slaughtering  of  reed-birds  is  the  sportsman's  popular 
pastime.  Bluebirds,  orioles,  and  king-birds  also  are 
all  too  apt  to  gather  about  the  marshes  and,  of 
course,  share  the  same  fate. 

It  frequently  happens,  in  autumn,  when  the  mi- 
gratory birds  are  beginning  to  move  off  and  the 
hosts  from  the  mountains  come  swooping  down  upon 
the  plain,  that  the  marshes  and  river-shore  and  every 
haunt  of  the  bird  we  have  been  considering  are  in- 
vaded by  a  small,  brown,  mottled  species  that  is 
everywhere  known,  when  known  at  all,  as  the  savanna 
sparrow.  It  never  essays  to  more  than  a  cheerful 
chirp,  even  when  at  home  and  happily  married  ;  but 
now,  here  on  the  brown,  frost-bitten  meadows,  they 
chirp  with  an  impatience  that  borders  on  fault-finding, 
and  so  to  the  rambler  are  interesting  only  by  reason 
of  their  numbers.  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  spar- 
rows drifting  like  dead  leaves  along  the  fences  of 
our  upland  fields,  but  here  in  the  immediate  river- 
valley  it  is  sometimes  a  matter  of  thousands.  A 
"wave  of  migration,"  as  the  bird-men  call  it,  and 
correctly,  but  it  is  also  a  general  disturbance  of  the 
regular  order  of  affairs  that  must  be  distressing  to 
the  resident  bird-world.  If  we  have  an  early  winter 
— a  rare  occurrence — these  savanna  sparrows  do 
not  stay  long,  but  when  autumnal  conditions  prevail 
until  New  Year's,  we  may  find  a  few  of  them  almost 
any  day.  Sooner  or  later  they  all  disappear,  and 


32  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

make  far  briefer  visits  on  their  northward  flight.  It 
is  with  them  as  with  all  other  migratory  birds  :  they 
go  as  far  south  in  autumn  or  north  in  spring  as 
they  find  their  needs  require,  and  then  are  quite 
indifferent  and  irregular  as  to  further  progress.  I 
have  been  much  amused  at  a  stock  phrase  regarding 
migrating  birds  in  a  recent  "hand-book,"  that  such 
and  such  species  winter  "from  Virginia  southward." 


Savanna  Sparrow. 

Many  of  these  birds  winter  habitually  and  in  num- 
bers in  Southern  New  Jersey.  Now,  a  part  of  Vir- 
ginia is  farther  north  than  the  southernmost  point  of 
New  Jersey,  so  that  the  statement  is  rather  indefinite  ; 
but,  taking  the  coast-line,  my  point  of  observation  is 
fully  one  hundred  and  fifty  miles  north  of  the  nearest 
point  in  Virginia,  and  yet  here,  winter  after  winter, — 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  33 

and  it  has  always  been  so, — birds  are  found  that  are 
stated  as  being  at  this  season  much  farther  south. 
There  is  no  real  reason  why  these  birds  should  not 
stay  in  Jersey.  It  is  just  as  warm.  There  is  prac- 
tically the  same  flora,  the  food-supply  is  abundant, 
and  every  other  feature  is  at  hand  to  make  the 
birds  comfortable.  There  is  nothing  strange  in  the 
fact  that  the  vesper-sparrow  is  always  here,  nor  that 
the  savanna  sparrow  lingers  until  after  the  holidays  ; 
it  is  no  more  strange,  indeed,  than  that  sea-side 
birds  should  wander  up  the  river-valley  to  the  very 
limits  of  tide-water ;  for  instance,  the  sharp-tailed 
finch. 

Let  us  turn  now  from  December  to  April,  from 
discussion  to  observation,  and  along  some  sunny 
wood-road  all  barred  and  cross-barred  by  the 
shadows  of  still  leafless  branches,  listen  for  the  in- 
dustrious scratching  of  that  beautiful  finch  or  sparrow, 
the  chewink,  among  the  dead  leaves.  We  have  in 
this  bird  one  of  the  most  delightful  phases  of  the 
many-sided  sparrow-life.  It  is  something  so  differ- 
ent, in  fact,  from  the  ways  of  the  "  chippy"  or  song- 
sparrow  that  the  bird  is  called  by  most  people  the 
"  swamp-robin,"  and  not  one  in  a  thousand  knows  that 
the  bird  is  a  finch  and  not  allied  in  any  way  to  the 
thrushes.  The  chewink  is  both  resident  and  migratory, 
yet  he  is  essentially  a  summer  bird.  It  is  when  all 
that  makes  for  greatest  activity  is  at  high-water  mark 
that  the  chewink  sings  his  loudest  strains  and  chirps 
till  the  woods  ring  with  his  earnestness,  and  he  flashes 
and  flits  through  the  lush  green  growths  as  if  the  cares 


34 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


of  the  universe  rested  upon  him.  Best  of  all,  the 
chewink's  taste  in  matters  of  locality  is  always  excel- 
lent. There  must  be  water  near.  It  detests  our 
usual  late  summer  drought,  and  quits  the  neighbor- 
hood at  the  earliest  intimations  of  its  coming ;  but 
given  a  cool,  damp  hollow 
in  the  woods,  a  fern-hidden 
cow-path  through  the  thick-set 
sproutland,  an  upland  swamp 
well  grown  with  blueberries,  or 
some  rocky  ledge  from  which 
trickles  a  little  spring, 
and  there  will  be  no  hap- 
pier occu- 
pant  of 
the  place 
than  the 
chew  ink. 
Happy,  if 
a  con- 
stant, self- 
contented  chirping  of  chewink  is  evidence 
thereof;  and  to  this  is  added  a  sprightly  song  when  the 
bird  leaves  the  ground  for  a  moment  and  whistles  so 
that  all  may  hear,  chee-do,  de  de  de — de  de.  It  is  an 
early  song  with  us,  heard  often  when  the  shad-blos- 
soms begin  to  show,  and  sometimes  earlier,  as  when 
the  first  seekers  of  arbutus  venture  into  the  oak  woods 
and  hear  it  in  some  shady  hollow  where  the  snow 
perhaps  still  lingers.  In  May,  when  the  chorus  of 
returning  summer  is  sung  in  the  orchard,  I  hear  an 


Chewink. 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  35 

answering  song  from  the  chewink  hidden  in  the  hill- 
side, and  no  less  happy  than  the  warblers  because  a 
dweller  in  waste  places  and  neglected  nooks  and  cor- 
ners of  the  farm.  "  Swamp-robin,"  indeed,  is  no  bad- 
name,  for  swamps  are  not  such  desolate  spots  as  the 
town-dweller  is  apt  to  imagine.  To  me  a  swamp 
means  freedom.  It  means  nature  without  man's  in- 
terference ;  and  when  we  get  as  close  as  possible  to 
the  earth  and  as  far  as  possible  from  mankind,  we 
begin  to  breathe  and  one  by  one  the  scales  drop 
from  our  eyes.  To  spend  the  day  with  a  chewink 
is  to  spend  it  in  good  company  and  to  have  an  ex- 
cellent example  in  the  matter  of  cheerfulness  set 
before  us. 

It  is  possible,  perhaps,  to  be  unduly  influenced 
and  led  to  ascribe  to  birds  virtues  which  they  do  not 
possess.  In  all  things  we  have  favorites  :  favorite 
flowers,  books,  houses,  cities,  and  countries,  so  why 
not  birds?  There  are  scores  of  them  to  be  met 
in  any  summer  day's  ramble,  and  they  cannot  or 
never  do  influence  us  alike.  We  may  be  indif- 
ferent to  a  swallow  and  grow  enthusiastic  over  a 
thrush,  but  I  have  always  held  to  the  reverse.  It  is 
the  unobtrusive,  overlooked,  and  underrated  birds 
that  claim  my  closest  regard.  The  crowd  that  will 
stand  and  listen  to  a  rose-breast  will  be  deaf  to  the 
chewink.  While  no  less  enthusiastic  as  to  the  gros- 
beak's wonderful  song,  I  am  always  held  by  the 
familiar  chirp  that  was  a  veritable  charm  and  in 
some  degree  a  wonder  when  I  scarcely  knew  one 
bird  from  another.  I  never  hear  the  bird  but  I 


36  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

see  again  the  old  spring-house  and  the  moss-edged 
flag-stones  of  the  path  that  led  to  it.  For  years 
there  were  chewinks  about  the  spot  all  summer. 
They  were  the  delight  of  the  old  folks  then,  and 
alas  !  I  am  the  old  folks  now.  That  double  chirp, 
c he-wink,  that  as  a  magician's  wand  bids  time  turn 
back,  restores  me  to  those  to  whom  I  owe  existence, 
and  rebuilds  the  play-ground  of  an  infant, — that  is 
a  bird-note  embodying  all  that  I  can  realize  in  the 
one  word,  music.  It  may  fall  harsh  upon  the  com- 
mon ear,  it  may  not  chord  with  the  melody  of  the 
thrush  that  is  singing,  it  may  click  and  clatter  like 
the  broken  string  or  the  cracked  trumpet,  but  it 
recalls  to  me  the  long-dead  past,  it  wipes  away  the 
tears  of  bitter  days,  and  is  all  that  I  ask  of  the  one 
word,  music. 

As  summer  progresses  and  at  noontide  the  woods 
grow  silent,  it  is  cheering  to  the  rambler  to  hear  the 
chewink  as  it  scratches  away  among  the  dead  leaves 
and  chatters  constantly,  like  happy  people  whistling 
at  their  work.  It  is  a  good,  wholesome  sound,  this 
double  chirp,  and  to  show  that  it  means  a  great  deal, 
draw  too  closely  to  the  birds'  nests  and  see  how  they 
can  ring  it  in  your  ears.  It  is  cruel  to  try  to  find 
the  nests,  however.  A  mere  shallow  depression  in 
the  ground  and  the  eggs  protectively  colored,  there 
is  far  more  chance  that  you  will  tread  upon  the  poor 
birds'  treasures  than  detect  their  whereabouts  with 
your  eyes.  It  is  inexplicable  to  me  that  this  cruelty 
is  so  common  among  grown  people.  We  cannot 
expect  much  of  children,  especially  when  we  con- 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  37 

sider  the  indifference  and  ignorance  of  parents  ;  but 
for  grown  men  to  persist  in  hunting  for  a  bird's  nest 
to  gratify  the  whim  of  a  thoughtless  and  heartless 
young  woman  is  simply  disgusting. 

The  overstaying  chewink  is  not  so  interesting  a 
bird.     It  seldom  chirps  and  never  sings, — that  is,  I 
never  heard  it, — and  skulks 
in  the  densest  tangles  of  the 
swamps.    Here  it  has  plenty 
of  food  and  sufficient  shelter, 
and  when  there  is  a  wealth 
of  winter  sun- 
shine, a  grand 
outpouring    of 
heat       that 
makes     the 
rambler    think 
at  once  of  spring,  then  the 
chewink,     according      to 
man's  views,  ought  to  sing, 
but  the   bird   thinks  differ- 

Foxie  Sparrow. 

ently  and  does  not  Like 
mankind,  however,  it  loves  to  kick  over 
the  traces  occasionally,  and  once,  at  least,  I  was 
treated  to  a  veritable  surprise.  Not  long  since,  as  I 
passed  along  an  upland  brook,  I  found  the  green- 
brier  trembling  with  merry  birds  that  threaded  its 
mazy  tangles.  Besides  tree-sparrows  and  snow-birds, 
there  were  many  fox-colored  and  white-throated 
sparrows  and  several  chewinks,  and  the  last,  as  if 
moved  by  the  noisy  host  about  them,  chirped  with 

4 


38  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

startling  emphasis.  They  seemed  anxious  to  pro- 
claim their  presence.  They  also  seemed  out  of  place, 
and  this  means  out  of  tune.  I  expected  to  find  all 
the  others,  and  their  united  twitterings  was  excellent 
winter  morning  music.  And  a  word  here  concerning 
the  most  prominent  of  all  the  birds  I  saw  at  the 
time,  the  big  red-brown  sparrows  that  have  been 
duly  named  fox-colored,  but  nicknamed  by  me, 
years  ago,  "foxies,"  and  so  I  shall  always  call 
them.  They  do  not  venture  into  town  nor  fre- 
quent the  suburbs,  except  very  transiently.  They 
come  and  go  in  the  night,  perhaps,  for  I  see  them 
in  abundance  one  day,  and  then  all  are  gone  for 
the  season;  at  least,  this  has  frequently  been  my 
autumn  experience.  But  there  are  certain  old 
worm-fences  with  a  barrier  of  weeds  and  greenbrier 
and  grape-vine  in  which  "foxies"  take  up  their 
abode,  sometimes  in  autumn  and  always  on  the 
approach  of  spring,  at  which  later  date  they  often 
sing  superbly. 

I  doubt  if  finer  bird-music  is  ever  heard  than  the 
occasional  outbursts  of  ecstasy  from  a  hundred  or 
more  of  these  sparrows  gathered  closely  together  in 
the  thicket.  It  is  during  pleasant  February  days 
usually,  but  sometimes  in  March,  if  the  season  is 
late,  and  even  in  April,  that  these  birds  may  be 
heard ;  but  in  the  first-named  month  I  have 
met  them  in  greatest  numbers.  The  first  frogs 
of  the  season  having  peeped  their  shrill  call  and 
sounded  their  rattling  cry,  we  naturally  look  about 
us  for  all  sorts  of  signs  of  spring,  and  fancy  warmer 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  39 

weather  is  near  at  hand,  though  we  may  have  to 
wait  six  weeks  for  it  Such  days  are  not  sure  to 
come,  but  they  generally  do,  and  we  are  always 
led  astray  by  them  ;  and  the  foxie  sparrows  in  the 
greenbriers  largely  help  us  to  our  silly  day-dreams 
of  the  coming  season.  It  is  delightful  fiction,  never- 
theless, and  we  thank  the  jolly  crew  of  the  green- 
briers  for  their  sham  prophecy  that  spring  is  near  at 
hand. 

Nearly  half  a  century  ago  I  remember  looking  out 


Snow-bird. 

of  the  window  and  seeing  the  yard  covered  with 
snow.  The  sun  was  shining  at  the  time,  and  over 
the  glittering  surface  of  yard,  fences,  and  the  low 
box-bushes  of  the  garden  walk  there  were  scores  of 
snow-birds  that  at  times  scattered  the  dry  flakes  in 
high  glee  and  to  my  infinite  delight  I  was  allowed 
to  toss  handfuls  of  crumbs  out  of  the  window,  and 
then  waited  to  see  the  birds  come  close  to  the  house 
and  eat  what  I  had  thrown  to  them.  It  was  my 


40  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

first  lesson  in  ornithology.  I  have  long  since  learned 
that  this  little  sparrow,  in  spite  of  its  name,  is  not  a 
snow-bird  in  a  literal  sense.  It  comes  to  us  early  in 
October  and  is  here,  off  and  on,  until  the  grass 
begins  to  get  green  again,  and  sometimes  later.  I 
say  "off  and  on,"  for  this  trite  expression  best 
describes  the  bird's  movements  about  my  present 
home.  They  certainly  follow  the  whim  of  the  mo- 
ment and  are  not  influenced  by  the  weather,  except 
mechanically,  for  a  violent  wind  sweeping  across  the 
fields  will  drive  them  to  the  protected  thickets  in  the 
meadows,  and  sometimes  I  have  failed  to  find  them 
even  there.  But  this  is  true  of  nearly  all  our  small 
birds.  They  have  the  good  taste  to  detest  a  windy 
day.  Snow-birds  are  likely  to  be  abundant  with 
the  mercury  below  zero  ;  again,  when  it  is  summer- 
hot,  as  were  some  days  in  December,  1895,  tne7 
may  be  here  by  the  hundreds  ;  and  then  in  a  whole 
week  or  more  of  moderate  weather,  of  pleasant  sun- 
shine, and  of  gentle  breezes  not  one  is  to  be  seen. 
These  erratic  movements  cannot  be  explained  by 
the  question  of  food-supply.  The  conditions  in  this 
respect  are  fixed  in  winter,  and  birds  in  February 
appear  to  find  quite  as  much  to  eat  as  they  did  on 
their  first  appearance  in  the  early  autumn.  There 
seems  to  be  no  one  set  of  conditions  or  character 
of  surroundings  that  is  peculiarly  attractive,  beyond 
the  fact  that  they  prefer  the  open  country.  I  find 
them  often  on  the  edge  of  the  woods,  but  seldom 
far  down  their  leafy  depths.  I  have  always  looked 
upon  them  as  birds  of  the  fields  and  garden,  and  yet 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  41 

bushes  are  never  too  near  the  house  for  them  to 
roost  therein.  During  the  day  they  are  fence-birds, 
one  might  say,  for  when  pursued  by  boys  or  hawks 
they  dart  in  and  out  among  rails,  boards,  and  paling 
in  a  way  to  bewilder  the  pursuer  ;  and  they  can  run — 
hop,  really — over  the  ground  with  wonderful  speed, 
and  look  like  mice  at  such  a  time ;  but  you  are  lucky 
to  catch  even  a  glimpse  of  them  if  there  is  any 
sheltering  growth  of  grass  or  weeds.  When  they 
favor  me  with  their  presence,  they  usually  gather  at 
sundown,  or  earlier  if  the  day  be  dark,  about  the 
cedars  and  the  huge  box-bushes  near  my  door,  and 
roost  there.  Just  before  retiring  there  is  often  heard 
a  pleasant  twittering  that  might  perhaps  be  called  a 
concert.  It  is  free  from  the  metallic  harshness  of 
many  birds  and  a  source  of  delight  to  the  rambling 
bird-lover,  something  sure  to  be  remembered  when 
the  events  of  the  day  are  recalled.  But  this  is  not 
all  the  music  of  the  little  snow-birds.  They  can  and 
do  sing  otherwise  and  quite  well.  Even  in  winter 
this  more  elaborate  effort  is  sometimes  heard,  but  it 
has  nothing  to  do  with  the  approach  of  a  snow- 
storm. That  pretty  fancy  proves  to  be  nothing  but 
a  whim  in  the  search-light  of  statistics.  In  fact,  I 
have  known  winters  without  snow,  but  never  has 
that  season  come  and  gone  without  snow-birds,  and 
merry,  singing  snow-birds,  too. 

Are  there  fewer  of  these  birds  than  formerly? 
This  is  a  good  deal  like  asking  if  the  climate  is 
changing,  and  our  replies  are  likely  to  be  about  as 
satisfactory.  As  to  the  weather,  comparing  half- 

4* 


42  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

century  with  half-century,  there  does  appear  to 
be  less  snow  than  in  the  days  of  our  grandfathers, 
and  my  observations  give  me  the  impression  that 
there  are  fewer  snow-birds.  I  have  kept  no  record 
— if,  indeed,  a  satisfactory  one  could  have  been 
kept — as  to  these  birds,  but  as  I  recall  them,  when 
a  boy,  and  compare  these  recollections  with  present 
observations,  they  are  seen  less  frequently  now. 
They  are  more  uncertain  :  here  to-day  and  gone  to- 
morrow ;  while  I  think  of  them  years  ago  as  a  pretty 
constant  feature  of  the  winter.  It  has  not  availed 
me  much  to  seek  the  impressions  of  those  who  have 
always  lived  about  here.  Their  ideas  are  always 
very  vague,  save  in  the  opinion  that  "  snow-birds 
are  chippies  turned  black,"  as  one  of  these  old 
people  expressed  it.  Except  in  the  movements  of 
game-birds  and  wild  fowl,  there  is  no  well-defined 
impression  current  as  to  bird-migration,  and  some 
appear  to  think  that  song-birds  are  merely  silent, 
not  absent.  This  absurdity  is  not  so  very  remark- 
able, after  all,  for  we  must  remember  that  north- 
ern birds  replace  southern  ones  in  autumn,  and 
many  of  the  latter,  as  "  overstayers,"  remain  through- 
out the  winter.  But  as  regards  the  numbers  of 
snow-birds,  may  not  the  matter  be  explained  by  the 
fact  that  these  blue-black  sparrows  really  like  the 
snow,  and  of  course,  by  reason  of  their  dark  color, 
are  very  conspicuous  ?  Other  sparrows  do  not  care 
to  sport  in  it  to  the  same  extent,  and  seek  the  shelter 
of  greenbrier  thickets.  If,  then,  we  had  more 
snows  years  ago,  and,  consequently,  the  snow-birds 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  43 

more  persistently  before  us,  the  impression  would 
follow  of  their  actual  greater  abundance,  whereas,  in 
fact,  they  are  as  numerous  now,  but,  hidden  among 
shrubbery  and  weeds,  although  leafless,  they  are  not 
so  conspicuous.  And,  too,  at  such  times  they  asso- 
ciate freely  with  tree-sparrows  and  white-throats,  and 
therefore  are  not  so  generally  noticed,  except  by  the 
field  naturalist  on  business  bent.  Whatever  the  pre- 
cise state  of  the  case  relatively,  in  fact,  they  have  not 
become  scarce,  but  remain  still  a  feature  of  the  winter 
landscape.  They  do  not,  I  regret  to  say,  congregate 
about  our  door-steps  as  I  would  like,  but  it  remains 
with  us  to  effect  an  improvement  in  this  respect.  We 
should  scatter  crumbs  and  seed  when  there  is  snow 
upon  the  ground,  and  keep  the  cats  away.  I  have 
made  them  very  tame  after  a  deep  snow,  but  they 
never  become  reckless.  No  snare  that  I  ever — as  a 
boy — set  up  was  effective  in  capturing  them,  except 
very  rarely.  The  late  Mr.  Lockwood  has  described 
their  diving  into  snow-banks  to  reach  food  that  had 
been  covered.  This  pretty  sight  I  have  seldom  wit- 
nessed ;  but  when  they  cluster  among  tall  weeds  that 
stand  well  above  the  snow,  and  cling  to  them  as  they 
bend  beneath  their  weight,  cheerily  chirping  the 
while,  we  have  a  delightful  winter-day  exhibition 
worth  walking  far  to  witness.  One  word  more.  An 
excellent  observer  maintains  that  I  am  wrong.  He 
insists  that  there  occurs,  in  accordance  with  the 
weather,  a  "wave,"  as  he  calls  it,  of  snow-birds  from 
the  mountains  to  the  meadows  and  back  again,  as 
the  storms  and  clearing  weather  alternately  prevail. 


44  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

In  other  words,  that  the  snow-birds  are  blown  to  and 
fro  like  dead  leaves  as  the  winds  happen  to  blow  up 
or  down  the  river-valley.  Perhaps  so,  but  I  do  not 
believe  it. 

As  much  unlike  the  blue-black  snow-bird  in  ap- 
pearance as  in  disposition  is  the  white-throated 
sparrow,  or  Peabody-bird.  These  come  to  us  from 
the  north  at  about  the  same  time,  but  do  not  show 
themselves  as  freely.  They  cling  to  the  thickets  like 
the  yellow  leaves  of  the  young  beeches,  and  you 
have  to  look  for  them  even  when  there  are  many 
about  Their  fancy  is  for  the  out-of-the-way  places 
that  are  not  easily  penetrated,  and  particularly  green- 
brier  thickets  that  defy  exploration.  It  is  a  marvel 
that  they  can  find  their  way  unscratched  through 
some  of  their  ordinary  winter  haunts.  Of  course 
they  recognize  no  law  in  such  matters,  and  at  times 
a  great  host  of  them  will  come  boldly  into  the  open 
and  perch  upon  fence-posts  and  go  through  the  full 
programme  of  what  we  call  our  sociable  sparrows. 
They  will  even  sing  at  such  times,  and  so  gladden 
the  quiet  and  deserted  upland  fields.  Though  at- 
tractive then  and  a  source  of  pleasure  to  the  contem- 
plative rambler,  I  like  them  better  amid  their  more 
natural  surroundings  on  the  sheltered  south  hill- 
slope,  enjoying  the  winter  sunshine  and  singing  in 
their  sleepy,  monotonous  way.  Is  there  a  time  when 
they  are  "out  of  song"  ?  From  October  to  April  I 
have  them  near  at  hand,  and  need  not  see  them  to 
speak  positively  of  their  presence.  Their  song  can- 
not be  mistaken  for  that  of  any  other  bird,  and  so 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


45 


often  does  it  happen  that  they  sing  when  other  birds 
are  silent,  that  they  become  by  reason  of  this  a  great 
addition  to  our  woods  and  by-ways  in  winter.  It 
would  be  indeed  a  depressing  change  from  the 
tuneful  summer  if  we  had  no  midwinter  minstrelsy, 
and  this  the 
Peabody  -  birds 
abundantly  pro- 
vide. 

I  have 
said  that 
I  have 
Peabody  -  birds 
always  near  by, 
but  the  winter 
of  1894-95  was 
an  exception. 
They  came,  but 
did  not  stay, 
and  made  but 
a  brief  sojourn 
on  their  north- 
ward journey  in 
April.  I  can 
offer  no  expla- 
nation of  this. 
My  eyes  could  detect  no  change  in  the  conditions 
of  their  old-time  haunts,  and  but  a  few  miles  away 
they  were  as  common  as  usual.  At  this  time — a  year 
later — they  are  abundant,  and  celebrated  New  Year's, 
in  spite  of  the  cold,  by  singing  with  great  ardor,  and 


Peabody-bird. 


46  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

the  next  day — a  brisk,  bright  winter  morning — their 
voices  almost  drowned  the  scolding  of  a  crow  that  I 
had  unwittingly  disturbed. 

The  pine-finch  is  a  little  sparrow  that,  if  it  went 
about  alone  or  but  two  or  three  together,  would  be 
quite  overlooked  ;  indeed,  when  there  are  a  great 
many  of  them  they  will  conduct  themselves  in  such 
a  way  as  not  to  be  at  all  conspicuous ;  and  if  ever 
there  was  an  uncertain  sparrow,  this  is  the  one.  So 
far  as  my  experience  goes,  they  are  not  to  be  looked 
for.  If  you  find  them,  well ;  but  it  is  useless  to  go 

about  gazing  at 
the  tree-tops  until 
your  neck  aches, 
with  the  expecta- 
tion that  sooner  or 
later  you  will  find 
a  host  of  dusty,  yellow- 
brown  finches  JJfT  clinging  to  the  topmost 
twigs  of  tall  trees,  and  then,  taking 

flight,  dotting  the  blue  sky  until  out  of  sight  They 
have  always  appeared  to  me  to  drop  from  the  clouds 
and  then  to  seek  this  airy  altitude  again.  Of  course, 
you  are  likely  to  see  these  birds  at  any  time  from 
October  to  April,  or  earlier  and  later,  but  do  not 
expect  it.  Take  so  much  of  their  presence  as  comes 
in  your  way  and  be  thankful,  for  they  are  cheerful 
birds  that  make  you  wonder  why  people  generally 
have  such  a  horror  of  winter  days  in  the  country,  as 
if  leaves,  green  grass,  and  flowers  were  essential  to 
make  the  out-door  world  even  tolerable.  It  is  quite 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  47 

different  in  New  England.  Mr.  Cram  writes  to  me 
from  New .  Hampshire  that  "since  October  [1895] 
pine-finches  have  been  abundant  everywhere.  No 
matter  in  what  direction  I  happen  to  walk,  I  see 
hundreds  of  them  crawling  over  the  evergreens  and 
never  taking  the  slightest  notice  of  any  one.  Just 
before  they  fly  they  utter  a  peculiar  screaming  note, 
and  then,  rising  into  the  air,  go  whirling  off  in  a 
dense  flock  to  other  feeding-grounds.  They  are 
usually  accompanied  by  goldfinches."  I  have  not 
found  them  so  tame  and  near  at  hand  ordinarily, 
but  then  I  have  few  evergreens  here  to  tempt  them, 
and  the  tall  deciduous  trees  have,  I  suppose,  little 
or  no  attraction  about  their  lower  branches.  After 
a  heavy  snow-fall  all  this  is  changed,  and  then  I 
have  seen  them  close  to  the  ground  and  about  fences, 
tame  as  Mr.  Cram  has  described  ;  but  my  note-books 
mention  very  few  such  incidents.  The  notes  of  the 
pine-finch  are  not  harsh,  not  a  "  peculiar  screaming," 
as  they  have  been  described,  but  wholly  pleasant  to 
the  ear.  Can  it  be  that  our  milder  climate  has  drawn 
the  harshness  out ;  given  us  in  this  lively  bird  a  honey- 
bee without  its  sting?  Whether  or  not,  its  lisping 
song  reminds  me  of  the  summer  thistle-finch,  its 
near  cousin,  that  delights  in  the  fierce  sunshine  of 
an  August  afternoon,  and  seeks  the  company  of 
crickets  in  the  hot  harvest-fields  or  swings  with  the 
bending  thistle-stalk  from  which  it  gets  its  food.  A 
January  pine-finch  is  the  best  of  all  reminders  of 
June  sparrows  and  hot- weather  birds  that  would 
have  all  the  world  one  tropical  zone  if  they  could. 


48  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

The  Arctic  circle,  of  which  we  hear  much  and 
know  little,  occasionally  slips  out  of  place  and  gets 
a  few  degrees  nearer  the  equator  than  is  at  all  neces- 
sary. This  would  be  intolerable  were  it  not  that 
Arctic  birds  come  down  with  it,  and  snow-buntings, 
a  long-spur,  cross-bills,  and  a  pine-grosbeak  ;  yes, 
and  the  snowy  owl  and  one  other,  still  rarer,  have 
been  seen  poking  about  the  woods  and  over  the 
fields  of  Southern  New  Jersey.  When  this  circle- 
slipping  is  sudden  and  makes  a  great  noise,  like  the 
blizzard  of  1888,  the  ornithologists  turn  out  in  force 
and  we  know  all  the  particulars,  but  there  is  a  gen- 
eral indifference  to  little  slips,  and  the  "stragglers," 
as  they  are  contemptuously  called  by  the  museum 
folk,  are  supposed  to  be  too  few  to  consider ;  but  a 
single  pine-grosbeak  or  half  a  dozen  red-polls  are 
really  better  than  a  thousand,  for  it  is,  or  they  are,  a 
great  deal  more  easy  to  observe  as  respects  habits, 
voice,  and  other  particulars,  just  as  one  individual 
among  men  may  be  very  entertaining  by  himself, 
but  lost  in  a  crowd.  First  let  me  say  that  a  great 
many  more  northern  birds  come  south  than  the 
bird-books  state  ;  and,  second,  several  come  as  far 
south  as  New  Jersey  that  are  supposed  to  be  con- 
fined to  New  England  at  this  time  of  year.  This 
has  been  disputed,  but  simply  on  the  ground  of  its 
being  at  variance  with  some  preconceptions  concern- 
ing migration.  It  is  not  worthy  of  special  notice, 
but  this  much  may  be  said  in  passing.  Many 
northern  birds  come  ashore  on  our  New  Jersey 
coast  and  scatter  inland  before  finally  leaving  us. 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


49 


Long  years  of  constant  association  with  a  taxidermist, 
who  was  supplied  with  birds  from  the  "  pine  regions," 
brought  to  him  by  the  charcoal-burners,  gave  me 
opportunities  far  superior  to  field  work  to  see  what 


Snow-bunting  and  Lapland  Long-spur. 

birds  were  about  in  winter ;  and  it  is  a  curious  fact 
that  this  taxidermist  received  birds  in  the  flesh  from 
near  the  coast  that  were  not,  that  same  winter,  ob- 
served by  any  one  in  the  immediate  valley  of  the 
Delaware,  and  snow-buntings,  several  long-spurs, 
c  d  5 


5O  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

snowy  owls,  pine-grosbeaks,  and  a  Bohemian  chat- 
terer were  among  them. 

Observations  by  others  as  well  as  my  own  go  to 
show  that  it  is  not  a  question  of  cold  as  to  whether 
we  are  likely  to  have  this  or  that  arctic  bird  with  us, 
but  wholly  a  matter  of  snow.  Deep  and  long-lasting 
snows  will  attract  and  hold  them,  too  ;  or  is  it  that 
their  long  journey  has  fatigued  them  to  an  extent 
precluding  prompt  return  ?  About  my  own  neigh- 
borhood, year  in  and  year  out,  we  are  almost  sure,  I 
think,  to  have  a  few  common  cross-bills,  and  occasion- 
ally the  white-winged  species  ;  then  snow-buntings, 
and  lastly  straggling  pine-grosbeaks.  The  Lapland 
long-spur  is  an  "  accidental"  visitor,  whatever  that 
may  mean.  Certainly  there  is  no  accidental  feature 
in  their  coming.  Associated  with  snow-buntings, 
they  follow  their  leaders,  and  if  they  come,  the 
long-spur  comes  also.  This  is  true  of  the  bird  in 
New  Hampshire.  Mr.  Cram  has  only  occasionally 
seen  it,  and  always  in  the  snow-bunting's  company. 
I  have  seldom  seen  snow-buntings  to  good  advan- 
tage, which  is  not  surprising  considering  how  com- 
paratively few  winters  in  each  century  they  favor 
us  with  their  abundant  presence  ;  but  once  they 
victimized  me  by  their  rough-and-tumble  manner. 
I  was  standing  near  a  little  clump  of  trees  in  the 
corner  of  a  large  open  field.  The  snow  was  very 
deep,  and  I  was  watching  with  some  interest  the 
dead  leaves  as  the  wind  carried  them  along,  tumbling 
and  bumping  over  the  thin  crust  that  had  formed 
during  the  night  I  was  not  a  little  surprised,  a  few 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  51 

minutes  later,  to  see  these  same  dead  leaves  come 
back  in  the  same  fashion,  and  I  realized  that  dead 
leaves  did  not  fly  against  the  wind.  I  had  before 
me,  without  knowing  it,  a  large  flock  of  snow- 
buntings. 

It  is  always  a  pleasant  incident  to  meet  with  a 


Cross-bills. 

cross-bill.  The  bird  will  not  prove  remarkable  in 
any  way,  except  that  its  motions  are  a  little  parrot- 
like,  which  is  not  saying  a  word  for  gracefulness,  as 
parrots  are  more  like  monstrosities  than  birds,  nor 
will  its  chirp,  twittering,  or  song,  if  one  can  call  it 
such,  be  at  all  inspiring ;  and  yet,  because  of  the 


52  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

novelty,  I  suppose,  one  is  disposed  to  watch  the 
bird  as  long  as  it  remains  in  sight.  Where  these 
birds  habitually  range  they  move  about  in  large 
companies  ;  but  those  that  come  down  into  Jersey 
from  the  coniferous  forests  of  Pennsylvania  are 
scattered  individuals  that  have  separated  themselves 
from  the  main  body  of  their  kind  and  are  here  asso- 
ciated with  birds  of  very  different  habits  and  ap- 
pearance. They  are  veritable  strangers  here  ;  and 
when,  as  I  know  has  happened,  they  are  detected  by 
mere  accident  associated  with  tree-sparrows  and 
purple  finches,  and  not  in  evergreens,  but  in 
leafless  bushes,  they  present  the  appearance  of 
creatures  out  of  place  and  ill  at  ease,  like  bashful 
children  away  from  home.  Cross  bills  under  such 
circumstances  become  mere  curiosities ;  but  man- 
kind has  not  yet  lost  its  taste  for  things  out  of  the 
ordinary. 

During  the  winter  of  1856-57,  which  was  a  mod- 
erately severe  one,  the  cross-bills  were  phenomenally 
abundant  in  this  neighborhood  and  came  boldly  into 
the  town.  They  climbed  about  the  sides  of  houses, 
where  there  were  vines  or  ivy,  and  even  went  so  far 
as  to  tap  at  the  windows,  as  if  demanding  admission 
or  asking  for  food.  Both  species  were  noticed,  but 
the  "white-wings  were  as  one  to  a  hundred,"  as  an 
observer  noted  at  the  time.  Since  then  there  has 
been  no  such  abundance  of  these  birds.  They 
demand  evergreen  forests,  and  just  in  proportion  as 
these  are  lacking  the  birds  forsake  the  locality.  I 
have  positive  knowledge  that  the  cross-bills  and 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS. 


53 


many  another  northern  bird  were  much  more  abun- 
dant in  this  vicinity  a  century  ago  than  now.  When 
all  Southern  New  Jersey  was  one  great  pine  forest, 
and  there  were  areas  of  woodland  connecting  this 
region  with  the  heavily  forested  regions  of  the  upper 
Delaware  Valley,  there  was  a  regular  southward  ex- 
tension of  all  the  northern  birds  that  migrated  in 
winter.  This  migratoiy  movement,  that  is  now 


Pine-grosbeak. 

limited  to  New  England  and  the  highland  areas  of 
the  Alleghany  region,  then  included  what  is  now  a 
practically  treeless  region.  These  so-called  "strag- 
glers" are  the  descendants  of  birds  that  a  hundred 
or  more  years  ago  habitually  visited  the  locality  ; 
so  it  is  not  strange  that  these  birds  should  come  oc- 
casionally, and,  as  has  been  said  before,  they  come 
more  frequently  than  is  generally  believed. 


54  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

Red  and  white  may  or  may  not  be  a  pleasing  com- 
bination, but  when  you  see  a  pine-grosbeak  on  a 
snow-covered  branch  you  will  be  pretty  sure  to  take 
a  second  look,  and  the  principal  reason  for  this  will 
be  the  rarity  of  your  opportunities  to  do  so.  Gros- 
beaks do  not  like  this  region.  They  often  come  to 
Pennsylvania,  but  keep  well  within  the  hemlock  for- 
ests, and  it  is  only  once  in  a  while  that  they  cross  the 
Delaware  and  take  an  outing  in  a  Jersey  woodland. 
More  frequently  they  wander  from  Long  Island  to 
our  sea-coast,  for  these  birds  have  been  seen  at 
Holly  Beach  and  not  noticed  either  north  or  west 
of  that  point  during  the  same  winter.  But  when 
the  novelty  of  the  bird's  presence  wears  away,  as  it 
soon  will,  for  it  is  stupid  and  silent,  you  will  realize 
that  something  more  than  red,  and  a  very  dingy  red 
at  that,  is  required  to  make  a  bird  attractive.  There 
is  everything  in  manner,  and  it  is  for  this  reason  that 
a  cat-bird  or  a  wren  is  worth  to  the  lover  of  out  of 
doors  all  the  grosbeaks  that  ever  came  from  Canada. 
You  look  at  them  and  then  they  are  forgotten,  but 
who  could  forget  a  Carolina  wren  ? 

There  is  not  a  day  in  the  year  that  we  may  not 
see  sparrows  of  one,  two,  or  perhaps  a  dozen  kinds. 
There  is  not  a  field,  wood,  or  pasture  that  is  not  fre- 
quented by  them.  No  spot  so  cold,  so  hot,  so  dry, 
or  so  wet  but  some  one  of  the  many  species  will  find 
there  a  congenial  home.  There  is  a  fixedness  of 
purpose  about  them  that  enables  you  to  anticipate 
their  presence  to  some  degree,  and  you  are  never 
likely  to  be  wholly  disappointed.  If  it  is  not  one 


THE  INSPIRING  SPARROWS.  55 

species  it  will  be  another.  You  might  as  well  try 
to  cut  the  hours  from  a  day  as  to  take  the  spar- 
rows from  the  morning.  These  birds  are  just  suffi- 
ciently methodical  to  be  comprehensible,  but  have 
nothing  of  the  mechanical  about  them,  as  one  might 
suppose  from  all  ancient  and  some  modern  ornitho- 
logical literature.  Sparrows,  as  a  class,  are  dear, 
delightful  birds  that  make  you  contented  even  if  you 
see  nothing  but  themselves  ;  for  whether  it  be  a 
song-sparrow  or  a  cardinal,  a  rose-breasted  grosbeak 
or  a  homely  little  "  chippy,"  it  has  made  your  ramble 
worth  all  the  exertion.  If  not,  I  have  nothing  more 
to  say. 

"  But  there  are  many  more  sparrows  about  here 
than  have  been  mentioned  ;  what  of  them?"  I  hear 
some  one  remark. 

True,  and  there  are  many  books  to  tell  you  all 
about  them. 


CHAPTER   II. 

WAITING    FOR   WARBLERS. 

THERE  are  days  in  every  year  that  are  all  too 
short  and  others  that  are  immeasurably  drawn 
out.  Of  the  latter  class  is  the  April  day  when  we 
take  our  initial  outing  for  a  set  purpose  and  spend 
long  hours  waiting  for  warblers.  All  through  the 
previous  night  the  moon  had  made  plain  the  familiar 
migratory  route,  and  the  last  trace  of  the  March 
winds  had  been  smothered  by  the  sweets  of  swelling 
blossoms.  Early  violets  and  the  lilacs  are  now  ready 
to  welcome  the  expected  guests,  and  surely  they 
must  be  near  at  hand  ;  but  somehow  they  do  not 
come.  Never,  it  may  be,  were  the  thickets  in  such 
fine  disorder,  and  the  April  sunshine  has  warmed  the 
dead  grasses  of  last  year  until  the  air  above  them 
quivers  ;  but  not  even  the  flirt-tails,  those  speckled, 
red-polled  warblers  that  always  get  here  ahead  of 
their  cousins,  will  come.  We  wait  all  day  for 
nothing,  and  go  home  both  tired  and  discouraged  ; 
but  we  were  ahead  of  time,  and  not  the  birds.  To- 
morrow was  the  appointed  time,  but  we  never  learn 
56 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  57 

this  fact  until  to-morrow  comes.  Yesterday  there 
were  no  warblers,  and  now  the  thickets  are  full  of 
them.  To  use  the  popular  word  of  the  bird-men, 
the  first  "wave"  has  arrived,  though  the  appear- 
ance of  a  thousand  warblers  that  pass  by  with  little 
fuss,  though  many  feathers,  is  in  no  respect  wave- 
like.  What  has  been  said  about  it  is  nothing  to 
the  purpose ;  it  is  enough  to  know  that  the  warblers 
are  on  the  way,  and  that  for  two  weeks  or  more  we 
shall  be  waiting. 

If  it  were  only  a  matter  of  waiting  to  see  a  wee 
bird  go  by,  there  would  be  no  necessity  for  calling 
attention  to  the  fact ;  but  the  aggravations  of  April 
are  soon  forgotten,  and  May-day — our  only  date  that 
is  magical  and  not  commonplace — comes  at  last ;  and 
then  what  of  the  warblers?  As  the  sands  of  the 
sea-shore,  as  the  leaves  of  the  forest,  in  number,  and 
active  as  the  motes  in  a  sunbeam,  they  are  the  mas- 
ters of  the  situation  while  they  tarry.  They  are  the 
fitting  associates  of  the  dainty  spring  blossoms,  and 
some  are  as  gayly  colored.  I  have  seen  them  flash- 
ing like  fire  as  they  clung  to  the  snowy  trunks  of 
white  birches  ;  others,  blue  as  bits  of  the  sky  above 
them,  rested  for  an  instant  among  blossoms  blue  as 
themselves,  and  then  were  lost  to  sight  until  they 
rose  from  their  fragrant  bed  and  chirped  to  the 
flowers  and  to  me  a  cheery  "good-by."  I  have 
seen  them  bathing  in  the  glistening  waters  held 
aloft  in  the  hollows  of  great  lotus-leaves,  and  at 
times  have  grown  almost  weary  watching  them  as 
they  clung  like  leaves  to  the  outer  twigs  of  the  old 


58  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

elms,  or  explored  the  mazes  of  the  underbrush,  or 
played  at  bopeep  in  the  shrubbery  of  our  little 
door-yards.  And  seldom  are  they  silent.  There 
may  be  nothing  uttered  worthy  of  being  called  a 
song,  yet  not  the  simplest  twitter  but  has  an  earnest- 
ness, an  assurance  of  great  happiness,  that  should 
find  an  echo  in  our  hearts.  Hide,  as  I  have  often 
done,  in  some  thick-set  bushes,  and  let  the  warblers 
come  very  near  you.  Let  the  black-throated  blue, 
or  the  spotted,  or  the  chestnut-sided,  or  any  one  of 
the  well-nigh  endless  series  flit  by,  perchance  stop 
an  instant  and  look  you  straight  in  the  eyes,  and 
then  salute  you  with  a  simple  tzit-tzit-tzit  See 
these  passing  warblers  in  some  such  simple  way, 
see  in  them  one  of  the  chiefest  of  merits  of  this 
magical  May-day,  and  you  have  gathered  some- 
thing of  the  bird-life  about  you  that  will  always 
be  remembered  with  delight.  Perhaps,  more  than 
all  birds  and  buds  and  blossoms  combined,  they 
make  up  the  charm  of  this  beautiful  May-day ;  cer- 
tainly, by  their  numbers  alone,  they  exert  an  influ- 
ence readily  recognized  but  not  so  easily  ana- 
lyzed. Warblers  open  the  season,  announce  the 
beginning  of  the  long  melodrama  of  summer,  and 
nowhere  else  in  this  wide  world  is  mankind  blessed 
with  more  lovable  heralds  bringing  good  tidings  to 
one  and  all. 

Happily  not  all  the  warblers  pass  us  by.  Even  in 
the  most  artificial  and  therefore  forbidding  gardens 
there  are  one  or  more  kinds  that  we  are  quite  sure  to 
see.  A  yellow  summer  warbler  or  an  orange  and 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  59 

black  redstart  will  even  put  up  with  some  gaudy 
exotic  vine  on  a  trellis  ;  but  just  now  we  need  not 
concern  ourselves  about  unfortunate  people  or  waste 
our  time  in  pitying  birds.  Let  us  go  to  some  sunny 
slope  where  there  are  oaks  that  the  squirrels  planted, 
or  to  some  remnant  of  a  woodland  tract  with  only 
native  weeds  dotting  the  leaf-mould,  and  here  we 
will  find  an  excellent  example  of  these  wandering 
wood-warblers,  one  with  manners  as  pronounced  as 
the  black  and  white  of  its  plumage.  It  runs  about 
the  trees  with  all  the  ease  of  a  squirrel,  and  can 
hang  on  to  the  slenderest  twigs,  head  down,  back 
down,  upside  down,  or  down  side  up,  with  all  the 
agility  of  an  acrobat ;  and  though  it  may  be  hungry 
at  the  time  and  food  abundant,  it  finds  moments 
wherein  to  lisp  its  trisyllabic  expression  of  content. 
In  this  sense  it  is  a  great  singer,  and  not  a  silent 
bird,  from  the  beginning  of  May  until  September ; 
and,  further  (what  I  have  not  seen  stated  in  any 
book),  when  it  has  a  nest,  there  is  frequently  a  con- 
siderable variation  in  the  ordinary  tsee-tsee-tseey  these 
notes  being  varied  in  expression  to  almost  clear, 
flute-like  music,  with  a  suspicion  of  a  trill  succeed- 
ing them. 

This  black-and-white  tree-creeping  warbler  builds 
a  cup-shaped  nest  on  the  ground ;  but,  while  it 
chooses  a  comparatively  safe  place,  the  bird,  by 
its  over-anxiety,  frequently  points  out  the  precise 
spot  to  any  one  who  happens  to  come  veiy  near. 
Here  is  a  bit  of  stupidity,  not  by  any  means  confined 
to  this  bird,  which  before  now  ought  to  have  been 


6o 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


outgrown.     Just  here  evolution  has  proved  a  trifle 
weak  in  its  workings. 

This  is  one  of  our  summer  resident  warblers  that 
we  may  confidently  expect  to  see,  but  there  seems  to 
be  a  good  deal  of  variance  in  the  opinions  of  bird- 
men  as  to  its  coming  and  going.  It  is  stated  to  be 
extremely  sensitive  to  cold,  and  the  opposite  opinion 
has  also  been  expressed.  This  sensitiveness,  if  a 
fact,  does  not  actually  drive  the  bird  away.  I  have 


Black-and- White  Tree-creeping  Warbler. 

seen  them  here  in  advance  of  the  red-polled  warblers, 
and  they  linger  habitually  until  late  in  November. 
Doubtless  much  more  depends  upon  the  food-supply 
than  upon  the  temperature,  for  I  have  seen  one  of 
these  birds  that  was  evidently  quite  happy  after  an 
April  snow-storm  that  whitened  the  ground  and  gave 
a  decided  wintry  aspect  to  the  woods,  in  spite  of  the 
blossoms  and  bursting  leaf-buds. 

A  very  different  bird  is  the  yellow-rumped  warbler. 


Yellow-rumped  Warbler. 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  63 

In  it  we  have  nearly,  if  not  quite,  the  typical  form 
of  this  group  of  birds,  and  a  very  merry  fellow  and 
excellent  company  it  proves  to  be.  I  always  regret 
to  see  the  last  of  them  pass  by,  and  wonder  why 
they  will  not  rest  in  a  region  that  they  find  suffi- 
cient unto  their  needs  for  nine  months  of  the  year. 
Yellow-rumped  warblers  are  in  place  wherever  you 
find  them,  and  are  as  much  at  ease  in  the  depths  of 
the  forest  as  about  our  garden  fences.  I  have  often 
seen  them  on  the  shade-trees  of  city  streets,  but 
particularly  tame  country  is  not  their  preference,  and 
I  have  always  observed  them  at  their  best  among 
the  willows  along  the  river-shore.  It  is  a  favorite 
gathering-ground  with  them,  and  any  estimate  of 
their  numbers  is  out  of  the  question.  Except  in  the 
case  of  certain  strictly  gregarious  species,  like  the 
red-winged  blackbirds,  I  have  never  seen  so  many 
birds  of  one  kind  together  as  of  these  lively  little 
warblers  among  the  willows  on  the  bank  of  the 
river.  Doubtless,  like  all  small  birds,  they  are  always 
hungry  and  always  feeding,  but  I  could  never  detect 
them  in  the  act  of  taking  food.  There  was  no  fly- 
catching  chase  or  darting  into  mid-air  for  some 
passing  insect.  They  were  always  on  the  move,  and 
so  ceaseless  was  their  chirping — a  single  metallic 
note — that  the  hum  of  their  united  voices  resembled 
the  continuous  vibration  of  a  telegraph  wire.  At 
times,  though  the  river  is  wide,  these  birds  would 
leave  the  willows  and  spend  some  time  upon  the 
opposite  shore,  where  there  were  many  evergreens, 
but  they  always  returned,  and  evidently  preferred 


64  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

the  more  open  willows  to  the  thick-set  cedars  and 
gloomy  spruces,  even  when  it  was  a  matter  of  shelter 
for  the  night.  Occasionally  the  whole  flock,  as  I 
may  call  it,  would  leave  the  trees  and  alight  on  the 
rubbish  near  the  ground.  Evidently  there  was  an 
abundance  of  food  here,  for  the  dead  grass,  twigs, 
and  bits  of  rotten  wood  left  by  the  freshets  were 
alive  with  insects ;  but,  if  food  was  their  object,  the 
warblers  indulged  in  a  very  quick  lunch,  for  they 
never  remained  long  enough  to  gather  more  than 
two  or  three  spiders  or  beetles.  Then,  as  if  in 
answer  to  some  signal,  they  would  again  throng  the 
willows,  chirp  with  greater  animation,  and  move  to 
some  new  point  up  or  down  stream,  as  fancy  led 
them. 

An  occurrence — not  infrequent — which  seems  to 
change  the  plans  of  not  only  this  but  all  the  migrat- 
ing warblers  is  a  violent  northeast  storm  during 
the  first  week  of  May, — the  Quakers'  "  Yearly  Meet- 
ing" storm,  and  the  farmers'  "blossom"  storm.  I 
have  known  a  rain  of  three  days'  duration  to  seri- 
ously disable  hundreds  of  birds  :  to  chill  them  until 
they  were  unable  to  keep  out  of  the  cat's  clutches 
and  very  nearly  fell  into  mine.  Every  plan  of  the 
birds  is  upset,  apparently.  Food  and  warmth  at 
any  price  being  their  single  aim  in  life,  many  come, 
at  such  a  time,  into  our  cities,  while  others  stay  close 
about  the  barns  and  stables  of  the  farms.  There  is 
sometimes  considerable  mortality  resulting  from  such 
distressing  conditions,  but  the  warm  days  sure  to 
follow  smooth  their  way,  and  the  delayed  birds  are 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  65 

soon  off  to  their  more  northern  nesting-grounds. 
Would  a  storm  or  a  series  of  them  that  delayed 
their  progress  for  almost  a  month  result  in  their 
nesting  in  more  southern  localities  ?  Has  this  ever 
happened  ? 

As  regards  many  of  the  migrating  warblers,  it  does 
not  seem  to  matter  a  great  deal  whether  you  are  up 


Chestnut-sided  Warbler. 

hill  or  down  dale  when  looking  for  them.  They  are 
as  likely  to  be  in  one  place  as  another.  Of  course 
they  have  preferences,  but  these  concern  them  only 
when  they  are  settled  for  the  summer,  and  not  when 
on  the  move.  I  have  seen  these  handsome  chestnut- 
sided  warblers  on  the  fences  of  our  most  unattractive 
fields  and  busy  as  bees  in  the  rank  growths  of  the 

e  6* 


66  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

mucky  meadow.  It  is  a  tree-warbler,  but  occasion- 
ally condescends  to  keep  company  with  Maryland 
yellow-throats,  and  may  dart  out  from  under  a  skunk 
cabbage  when  you  are  looking  for  it  in  the  upper 
branches  of  the  sapling  birches.  It  is  seldom  quiet, 
unless  asleep.  Occasionally  some  of  our  warblers 
will  stop  for  a  moment  and  even  go  so  far  as  to 
plume  themselves,  but  the  chestnut-sided  warbler, 
like  the  redstart,  plumes  itself  on  the  fact  that  it 
does  not  need  to  rest.  It  is  always  on  the  lookout, 
always  moving  from  point  to  point,  as  if  animated  by 
an  abiding  faith  that  there  is  merit  in  motion,  even 
should  nothing  come  of  it.  That  the  peculiar  man- 
ners of  each  warbler  have  been  too  elaborately  com- 
mented upon  is  more. than  probable.  Could  we  bleach 
or  blacken  the  feathers  of  a  dozen  or  more  species 
and  then  turn  them  loose,  I  imagine  there  would  be 
endless  difficulties  in  the  way  of  specific  recognition. 
The  flirt  of  the  tail,  the  spread  of  the  wings,  and 
sometimes  even  the  voice,  would  be  clouded  in  uncer- 
tainty. As  a  class,  they  can  be  recognized.  There  is 
a  family  likeness  running  all  through,  though  obscured 
in  an  oven-bird  or  a  yellow-breasted  chat ;  but  if  the 
sun  shines  in  your  eyes  do  not  be  too  sure  of  the  spe- 
cies when  the  bird  is  near  the  top  of  a  tall  tree,  and, 
I  may  add,  never  shoot  it,  to  be  certain  ;  this  is  abso- 
lutely unjustifiable  under  any  circumstances.  Your 
ignorance  will  do  you  no  harm  for  the  day,  and  the 
next  time  you  are  waiting  for  warblers  you  may  be 
more  lucky.  The  sun  does  not  always  shine  in  our 
eyes.  Nor  is  it  well  to  be  too  positive  when  the 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  67 

"song"  is  heard,  for  those  that  are  said  to  merely 
chirp  or  twitter  sometimes  repeat  their  single  note 
so  rapidly  that  it  becomes  song-like.  An  excited 
warbler  is  very  suggestive  of  a  person  who  stutters. 
There  may  be  but  one  syllable  uttered,  but  it  is 
uttered  with  vigor,  and  sounds  something  like  a  whole 


Black-throated  Green  Warblers. 

sentence.  There  are  exceptions,  naturally,  but  one 
has  good  grounds  for  being  positive  when  the  black- 
throated  green  warblers  are  under  observation. 
There  is  little  chance,  in  such  a  case,  of  being 
misled.  This  pretty  bird  has  a  song, — is  a  "  warbler" 
in  the  proper  sense  of  that  word  ;  and  this  moves  me 
to  say  that  the  group  as  a  whole  are  not  happily 


68 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


named,  many  having  no  trace  of  music  in  their 
throats,  whatever  may  be  concealed  in  their  souls. 
Never  does  May  come  round  but  the  black-throated 
green  warblers  come  with  it,  and  when  they  gather — 
perhaps  a  dozen  or  more — in  the  tall  meadow  hick- 
ories, from  their  leafy  tops  floats  a  melodious  stream 


Pine-creeping  Warbler. 

of  clear,  crisp  notes  that  add  a  charm  even  to  the 
meadows  with  their  brilliant  array  of  blossoms  and 
attendant  thrushes. 

The  unexpected,  which  may  or  may  not  be 
pleasant,  is  always  likely  to  occur  when  we  are 
watching  for  warblers.  A  hawk  may  dash  through 
the  trees  and  scatter  every  feather  before  us ;  but  it 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  69 

is  far  more  likely  that  no  tragical  incident  will  mar 
our  pleasure,  which  will  perhaps  rather  be  increased 
by  the  sudden  appearance  of  some  new  species  of 
which  we  had  not  thought.  The  hooded,  the  parula, 
the  worm-eating,  the  bay-breasted,  the  spotted,  or 
the  pine  warbler  may  turn  the  corner  of  some  twisted 
twig  and  command  attention.  There  may  be  nothing 
very  different  in  their  ways,  but  the  plumage  is  so 
marked  and  the  display  of  contrasting  colors  so 
decided  that  it  is  a  positive  delight  to  trace  their 
progress  through  the  bushes  or  the  tree-tops, — 
wherever,  in  fact,  they  may  chance  to  be  ;  that  is,  if 
you  are  disposed  to  be  entertained  by  ways  rather 
than  words,  for,  with  very  few  exceptions,  the  most 
pretentious  songs  of  these  wood  -  warblers,  over 
which  writers  have  enthused  and  which  they  have 
minutely  described,  really  amount  to  very  little  ;  and 
particularly  now,  in  early  May,  are  of  even  less 
moment  from  the  fact  that  acknowledged  great 
musicians,  skilled  in  all  the  art  of  melodious  ex- 
pression, cause  the  very  air  to  tremble  with  their 
ecstatic  singing. 

There  is  always  danger  of  overestimation  of  a 
wild  bird's  merits.  Birds,  to  be  sure,  as  a  class  can- 
not be  overvalued  ;  they  are  really  superior  to  any- 
thing that  can  be  said  in  their  favor ;  but  when  we 
happen,  by  force  of  circumstances,  to  be  particu- 
larly impressed  by  a  song,  or  see  unexpected  in- 
telligence in  some  display  of  cunning,  we  are  apt 
to  use  our  bright  colors  too  freely  in  subsequently 
painting  the  bird's  portrait.  There  come  to  us  every 


70  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

spring,  and  remain  with  us  until  autumn,  two  very 
thrush-like-looking  warblers  that  most  people  would 
in  no  way  associate  with  the  pretty  pied  and  spotted 
creatures  that  for  a  few  days  flit  and  flutter  among 
the  trees.  Their  anatomy  tells  of  their  origin  and 
consanguinities  near  and  remote,  but  to  practical 
folk  they  are  not  warblers  like  a  redstart  or  a  sum- 
mer yellow  bird  ;  yet  to  all  of  us  they  are  superb 


Oven-bird. 

musicians.  One  of  these  pretty  warblers  is  the 
oven-bird,  so  called  from  the  manner  of  its  nesting ; 
the  other  is  the  water-thrush.  Both  are  intelligibly 
named,  and  the  latter  is  not  so  excessively  rare  in 
this  locality  as  has  been  asserted.  The  oven-bird, 
in  a  soft  brown  suit  with  greenish  lustre,  its  mo- 
notony relieved  by  streaks  and  spots  of  black,  is 
much  of  the  time  a  strictly  woodland  bird,  although 
I  have  known  of  marked  exceptions.  It  is  a  small 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  ft 

bird,  but  with  such  peculiar  habits  that  it  is  prom- 
inent even  when  many  birds  of  other  kinds  are 
about  it.  Attention  will  be  drawn  to  it  by  its 
stately  walk  and  a  seesaw  motion  that  suggests  our 
long-legged  wading  birds.  On  their  arrival,  late  in 
April,  no  bird  is  more  familiar,  and  they  even  tarry 
for  a  few  days  in  the  larger  yards  of  our  towns  if 
they  have  much  shrubbery  in  them.  But  when  the 
days  grow  some  half-hour  longer  and  the  noontide 
heat  a  few  degrees  stronger,  these  thrush-like  warblers 
take  to  the  woods  and  settle  there  for  the  remainder 
of  their  summer  sojourn  ;  here  only  can  you  see  these 
lively  birds  at  their  best,  and  perhaps  it  is  safe  to  say 
that  to  hear  their  song  you  must  go  to  their  haunts 
towards  sunset  or  when  the  day  is  cloudy  and  rain 
threatened.  I  have  not  found  them  an  all-day-long 
singer,  even  in  nesting-time,  though  others,  it  ap- 
pears, have  been  more  fortunate.  Before  a  favorite 
bit  of  woodland  was  cleared  I  have  had  nesting 
oven-birds  at  my  elbow  all  day,  and  they  have 
never  more  than  chirped.  Busy  along  the  brook-side, 
these  miniature  sand-pipers  were  satisfied  to  chirp 
only,  and  this  not  frequently.  It  did  not  appear 
that  my  constant  presence  disturbed  them  in  any 
way,  and  I  concluded  that  they  could  be,  if  they 
chose,  the  most  taciturn  of  all  our  birds.  But  as 
the  sun  went  down  all  this  changed,  and  when  a 
mellow  light  that  is  beyond  description  filled  the 
woodland,  and  other  birds  were  thinking  of  their 
night-long  rest,  the  oven-bird  was  moved  to  sing, 
and  spent  all  his  energy  in  uttering,  with  regularly 


72  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

increasing  emphasis,  syllables  that  I  have  always 
likened  to  see-saw  four  or  five  times  repeated. 
There  is  a  clear,  fife-like  tone  in  the  song  that  en- 
ables you  to  hear  it  when  the  bird  is  a  long  way  off, 
and  much  is  gained,  too,  by  its  being  a  song  in  the 
woods.  The  surrounding  trees  and  dense  foliage 
seem  to  rid  it  of  a  certain  harshness  that  would  be 
very  noticeable  if  heard  in  an  open  field. 

Comparatively  few  people,  I  suppose,  have  heard 
that  other  occasional  sunset  song  of  the  oven-bird, 
when  the  fife  is  laid  aside  for  the  flute  and  the  earnest- 
ness of  the  ordinary  song  gives  place  to  a  frenzied 
utterance  that  it  is  in  vain  to  attempt  to  analyze.  It 
may  be  thought  the  acme  of  non-appreciation,  but 
this  occasional  burst  of  song  is  too  much  in  the  nature 
of  a  sudden  impulse — is  too  rapid,  intricate,  and 
loud — to  affect  me  as  do  the  softer  tones  of  a  more 
calm  and  contemplative  songster.  One  detects,  it  is 
true,  here  and  there  a  note  of  matchless  sweetness, 
but  as  a  whole  the  exaggeration  of  sound  and  the 
bird's  excessive  action  are  to  me  far  more  curious 
than  musical,  and  when  it  ceases,  the  "  good-night" 
of  a  wood-pewee  or  the  dreamy  warble  of  a  yellow- 
throat  is  far  more  acceptable  to  my  ears.  De  gus- 
tibus  holds  good  of  the  songs  of  birds  as  of  other 
matters  in  this  world,  and  I  cannot  share  in  the 
enthusiasm  spread  over  pages  of  our  ornithological 
literature  ;  either  this,  or  I  have  never  heard  the 
genuine  songs  described,  but  only  a  feeble  imitation 
thereof.  I  do  not  accept  this  explanation  of  a  friend. 
Delightful  as  is  bird-music  and  much  as  it  is  to  me, 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  73 

I  am  convinced  that  it  is  something  more  than  the 
mere  utterance  of  the  bird  that  holds  us.  The 
truth  is  that  almost  no  song  of  a  bird  will  stand  the 
test  of  a  scientific  examination  based  upon  the  laws 
of  music  or  of  melody.  The  circumstances  and 
surroundings  quite  as  much  as  the  sound  uttered 
have  to  do  with  the  pleasure  of  him  who  hears  it 
It  is  a  delight,  and  one  that  no  words  can  adequately 
describe,  to  wander  through  dense  hemlock  forests, 
such  as  were  once  common  in  the  upper  Dela- 
ware Valley,  and  there  see  flash  in  front  of  you  a 
brightly  colored  bird,  and  hear  it  warbling  as  it  goes. 
Though  the  "song"  may  be  the  most  stridulous 
tzit-tzit-tzit,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  welcome  sound,  a 
sweet  if  not  musical  one,  because  of  its  suggestive- 
ness.  It  is,  in  this  instance,  evidence  of  a  contented, 
busy  life  in  these  gloomy  woods.  We  are  so  pleased 
to  see  the  bird  and  to  hear  its  best  efforts  to  express 
happiness,  lame  as  they  are  from  an  artistic  point  of 
view,  that  the  creature  seems  beautiful  more  because 
of  its  gayety  than  of  its  brilliant  plumage,  and  musical 
because  of  its  light-heartedness.  From  the  ever- 
green forests  of  the  mountains,  from  the  gloomiest 
swamps  that  ever  defied  the  sunlight,  we  carry  with 
us  the  impression  of  wonderful  musicians  that  have 
made  good  their  claim  rather  by  their  happy  manner 
than  by  any  actual  accomplishment.  I  would  not 
say  one  word  in  disparagement  of  warblers,  but 
surely  they  are  not  the  only  captivating  birds  in  the 
land,  as  more  than  one  ornithologist  has  suggested. 
An  associate  of  the  oven-bird  in  early  spring,  but 
D  7 


74 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


of  very  different  habits  the  summer  through,  is  the 
ever-abundant  and  ever-delightful  Maryland  yellow- 
throat.  Many  a  long  year  ago,  when  my  only  teacher 
as  regards  the  out-door  world  was  an  old  farm-hand 
to  whom  I  always  applied  for  information  and  have 
found  since  was  seldom  led  astray,  I  asked  about 
this  little  bird,  and  he  told  me  that  it  was  the 
"black-cheeked  wren,"  and  for  years, 
until  Audubon's  seven  volumes  came  to 
hand,  I  called  it  such.  It  is  quite  as  good 
a  name  as  the  one  given  in  the  books. 
Why  "  Maryland"  should  be  tacked  on 
to  the  popular  name  i 
dent.  Scarcely  one  of 
graphical  terms  used  in 
ular  nomenclature  but 
downright  absurd- 
ity. To  bring  about 
their  disuse  would 
be  a  better  occupa- 
tion for  the  bird- 
men  than  the  intro- 
duction of  the  jaw- 
breaking  trinomial- 
isms  with  which  they  lumber  the  pages  of  their  lists, 
catalogues,  and  hand-books.  This  warbler,  then,  with 
its  black  cheeks  and  yellow  throat  and  Quaker-brown 
back,  is  a  lover  of  the  lowlands,  of  the  edges  of 
swamps,  and  of  those  remaining  traces  of  Edenic 
gardens,  the  meadows.  It  demands,  or  at  least  asks 
for,  the  rank  growths  that  heat  and  moisture  bring 


Maryland  Yellow-throat. 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  75 

about,  and  is  not  happy  without  them.  During  a 
recent  drought  I  fancied  that  one  of  them  was  sing- 
ing, moisture,  moisture,  moisture,  wet!  It  certainly 
sounded  as  much  like  that  as  certain  other  words  that 
have  been  put  into  its  beak.  The  fact  is,  it  not  only 
sings  differently  in  different  localities,  but  individuals 
differ,  as  I  have  often  noticed,  and  this  variation  puz- 
zled me  until  I  saw  the  bird  in  the  act  of  singing. 
Last  summer,  near  my  house,  both  a  yellow-throat 
and  a  Carolina  wren,  often  at  the  same  time,  kept 
asking  for  an  hour  or  more,  "Where  did  you  get  it?" 
It  needed  sharper  ears  than  mine  to  distinguish  be- 
tween the  birds.  Indeed,  I  doubt  if  any  one,  guided 
by  the  sound  alone,  could  have  distinguished  one 
from  the  other.  My  yellow-throats  at  home  have  a 
particular  fancy  for  the  foot  of  a  long  bluff  from 
which  issue  many  springs,  and  around  which  cluster 
great  masses  of  skunk  cabbage.  About  these  unat- 
tractive plants  and  among  the  matted  dead  leaves 
and  moss  the  birds  hunt  all  the  day  long,  varying 
this  with  frequent  upward  flights  to  the  sprouting 
birches  or  spice-wood  bushes,  from  which  they  sing 
with  a  clear-voiced  animation  that  may  be  heard  for 
a  long  distance.  Here,  too,  amid  what  people  count 
as  desolating  dampness,  the  yellow-throats  build  their 
nests,  and  the  spot  becomes  the  more  dear  to  them 
from  this  fact,  for  later  in  the  summer  they  do  not 
wander  away.  It  would  not  be  a  very  difficult  task 
to  determine  how  many  times  in  an  hour,  from  sun- 
rise to  sunset,  one  of  these  birds  shouts  to  the  outside 
world,  wittitee,  wittitee,  wittitee,  wee !  which,  being 


76  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

interpreted,  signifies  that  with  them  all  is  well ;  for 
yellow-throats  are  happy  birds,  and  though  pre-emi- 
nently active,  are  not  fidgety  or  ill-tempered  like 
wrens.  Even  if  you  go  very  near  their  nests  they 
will  not  fret,  unless  you  prove  a  brute,  and  then  they 
would  kill  you  if  they  could,  and  more's  the  pity 
that  they  have  not  the  power.  But  the  charm  of 
these  pretty  birds  consists  in  their  summer-long 
merry-making.  Unlike  many  birds  that  find  nothing 
to  sing  about,  nothing  to  celebrate  after  the  nesting 
is  over,  the  yellow-throats  sing  from  the  day  of  their 
coming  to  that  of  their  departure.  They  do  not 
admit  that  they  are  old  because  their  offspring  have 
grown  up  and  left  them,  but  keep  on  in  the  same 
even-tempered  way,  and  find  more  to  be  thankful 
for  than  to  fret  about.  In  fact,  I  have  not  dis- 
covered that  any  conditions  are  quite  disheartening. 
Excessive  rain  does  not  damp  their  spirits,  nor  a 
disastrous  midsummer  drought,  unless  it  cuts  short 
their  food-supply.  They  stick  closely  to  the  spots 
they  chose  as  nesting-sites  weeks  before,  and  when 
even  the  thrushes  have  given  up  their  concerts  and 
the  rose-breast  merely  clicks  as  it  passes  through  the 
woods,  these  birds  still  sing  with  unabated  energy, 
happily,  happily,  happy  are  we  ! 

It  is  always  possible  to  say  too  much,  but  when 
we  set  out  to  chat  of  the  redstart  there  is  not  much 
probability  of  serious  exaggeration.  It  is,  fortunately, 
not  a  rare  bird,  and  is  so  artless  in  all  its  ways  that 
it  has  not  given  rise  to  useless  wrangling  in  the  orni- 
thological journals.  Following  the  cue  of  anatomi- 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  79 

cal  structure, — and  this  is  the  only  proper  guide, — 
birds  are  classed  in  a  scientific  or  natural  way  that 
admits  of  no  dispute  ;  but  to  the  popular  mind  many 
a  lower  form  of  bird-life  enjoys  a  prominence  and  a 
value,  so  to  speak,  not  accorded  to  the  true  higher 
types.  The  redstart  is  a  warbler,  but  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  to  represent  the  highest  type,  the  cul- 
mination of  evolutionary  effort,  among  birds,  and  that 
no  other  bird,  taking  everything  into  consideration, 
could  excel  it.  What  has  surprised  me  more  than 
all  else  is  that  this  bird  is  not  so  well  known  as  the 
bluebird  or  the  robin.  It  is  always  and  everywhere 
abundant,  and  really  stays  all  summer  and  nests 
where  it  is  recorded  as  merely  a  transient  visitor.  I 
chanced  recently  to  see  the  statement  that  it  is  sel- 
dom found  breeding  in  a  given  county  in  Pennsyl- 
vania, whereas  I  know  that  it  is  abundant  there  sum- 
mer after  summer,  and  as  common  among  the  trees 
of  village  streets  as  the  red-eyed  vireo.  Years  ago, 
perhaps,  it  was  a  forest  bird,  but  time  has  changed  all 
that.  In  the  summer  of  1895  there  were  three  pairs 
that  had  nests  within  a  few  yards  of  my  house,  and 
one  of  them  was  built  in  a  cedar  directly  in  front  of 
a  rustic  seat  that  was  very  frequently  occupied.  All 
the  season  through  the  birds  were  as  tame  as  house- 
wrens  or  chipping-sparrows,  and  so  it  has  been  for 
years.  There  has  been  a  deal  of  rubbish  written 
about  their  haunts,  shyness,  and  comparative  rarity. 
Redstarts,  if  not  strictly  musical,  are  pleasantly  cheer- 
ful, and  their  efforts  at  singing  are  not  devoid  of  a 
certain  measure  of  success.  Again,  the  strongly  con- 


8o  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

trasted  colors  of  their  plumage  render  them  always 
conspicuous,  whatever  their  surroundings  ;  and  yet, 
strange  to  say,  these  birds  are  not  generally  known. 
Tell  ninety-nine  out  of  every  one  hundred  people  that 
it  is  a  black  canary  from  the  cannibal  islands,  and 
they  will  not  suspect  that  you  are  hoaxing  them. 
But,  on  the  other  hand,  there  are  a  great  many 
people  who  do  know  the  lively  redstarts,  and  not  one 
of  these  fortunate  folk  but  loves  them.  It  would  be 
hard  to  find  in  all  our  avi-fauna,  or  in  that  of  any 
other  country,  a  more  attractive  form  of  bird-life. 

With  the  general  northward  rush  of  migratory 
birds, — thrushes,  finches,  flycatchers,  and  warblers, — 
the  redstarts  appear,  though  not  so  early  as  many 
others,  for  they  must  have  insects,  and  cannot,  as  do 
many,  flourish  on  a  vegetable  diet  for  a  while.  Like 
all  little  birds,  redstarts  are  "  feathered  appetites,"  and 
eating  from  dawn  to  dark  seems  to  be  the  sole  end  of 
their  existence  ;  but  finally  other  views  of  life  crowd 
upon  them,  and  eating,  like  the  intricacies  of  their 
leafy  surroundings,  loses  its  novelty.  The  sobering 
thought  and  anxieties  of  nesting  steady  them  for  a 
few  weeks,  during  which  time  they  are  less  like  the 
man  who  remarked,  "  What  with  three  meals  a  day, 
lunch,  and  a  nap  in  the  afternoon,  I've  no  time  for 
work."  I  fancy  they  eat  less  when  they  are  building 
a  nest,  for  this  structure,  the  result  of  joint  labor,  is 
not  hurriedly  put  together,  but  neatly  woven  of  soft 
materials,  and  is  very  durable.  The  storms  of  the 
following  autumn  and  winter  do  not  always  scatter 
it  to  the  winds. 


WAITING  FOR  WARBLERS.  81 

To  give  the  story  of  the  redstart  from  May  to 
October  is  to  write  the  history  of  a  summer,  and 
I  scarcely  dare  assume  that  task.  Redstarts  and 
azaleas,  dog-wood,  violets,  and  snowy  wind-flowers  ; 
young  leaves  as  dainty  as  the  choicest  blossoms, 
green  grass,  and  all  the  lush  growths  that  cluster 
in  the  marsh  ;  fresh  new  earth  unmarred  as  yet  by 
chilling  storm  or  wilting  sunshine  ;  gentle,  invigo- 
rating warmth  and  all  that  follow  in  its  train  ;  spring- 
tide and  music  ;  redstarts  and  all  vernal  beauty. 

The  sleepy  sunshine  of  long  summer  afternoons, 
the  dense  shade  beneath  the  thick  and  dusty  leaves, 
the  quiet  of  mid-day  hours,  the  noiseless  flow  of  the 
unresting  tide,  and  with  it  all  the  agile,  flashing,  ever- 
flitting  redstarts,  their  wiry  notes  as  ceaseless  as  those 
of  creaking  crickets, — a  summer  song  that  neither 
angry  storm  nor  savage  heat  can  silence. 


CHAPTER   III. 

THE    MASTERS    OF   MELODY. 

IT  is  humiliating  to  think  that  we  have  no  tame  wild 
birds,  and  yet  we  might  have  many.  Thoreau 
proved  this  while  living  in  his  Walden  hut,  and  it  has 
been  shown  time  and  again  that  man,  and  not  the 
birds,  is  at  fault.  They  are  driven  off,  and  man  is  the 
driver.  Now — and  perhaps  it  has  been  so  always — 
there  are  too  many  farmers  who  complain  if  a  robin 
eats  a  cherry  or  the  cat-birds  raid  the  strawberry 
beds.  These  are  the  men  who  too  often  rule  in  the 
community,  and  between  their  greed  and  others'  indif- 
ference the  birds  that  would  otherwise  crowd  about 
our  door-yards  are  not  only  driven  to  the  fields  and 
orchard,  but  persecuted  even  there.  What  nature 
considerately  gave  to  this  country  is  rejected,  and  an 
alien  bird,  a  veritable  outcast  of  featherdom,  has 
been  received  with  open  arms.  A  hundred  English 
sparrows  perch  upon  the  ridge-pole  and  creep  be- 
tween the  slats  of  the  closed  shutters,  and  lucky  are 
we  if,  in  winter,  there  is  a  single  robin  in  the  orchard. 
A  score  of  these  sparrows  will  stand  guard  where  the 
82 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  83 

outlook  is  good  and  dispute  the  approach  of  every 
wren  and  bluebird.  There  is  not  a  lilac  hedge  or  an 
old  box-bush  in  which  the  jolly  "chippy"  can  now 
feel  sure  of  freedom  from  molestation,  and  the  song- 
sparrows  that  once  asked  for  crumbs  in  midwinter  at 
the  kitchen  door  and  paid  for  them  in  song  now 
seldom  venture  over  the  garden  fence.  Not  one 
of  our  common  birds,  not  even  the  wren,  is  as  tame 
as  it  might  be  and  willingly  would  be,  though  many 
of  the  shy  dwellers  in  deep  woods  and  far-off  swamps 
and  unfrequented  fields  would  come  at  least  within 
hearing  if  they  had  assurance  of  safety.  The  vast 
majority  of  birds  that  are  now  associated  in  our 
minds  with  the  remote  forests,  those  farthest  re- 
moved from  man,  do  not  prefer  these  regions  to  cul- 
tivated areas,  but  realize  their  greater  immunity  from 
danger  in  such  localities.  These  birds  do  not  flee 
from  the  single  cabins  of  backwoodsmen,  nor  are 
they  disturbed  by  the  camp-fires  of  true  sportsmen  ; 
but  they  dread  the  unthinking  crowd  that  open  new 
lands  to  civilization,  and  who  apparently  consider 
it  a  duty  to  persecute  the  earlier  occupants.  It  may 
be  necessary  to  kill  the  wolves  and  the  wild-cats,  but 
the  slaughter  should  cease  before  bird-life  is  extermi- 
nated or  driven  away.  It  may  be  asked,  How  can  the 
wild  birds  be  again  made  tame  ?  and  the  reply — a 
confident  one — is  ready.  By  not  doing  anything  that 
we  now  do,  and  by  doing  a  great  deal  that  we  leave 
undone.  The  great  obstacle  is  ignorance  ;  a  scarcely 
minor  one  is  greed  ;  a  lesser  one,  yet  of  much  mag- 
nitude, is  indifference.  To  overcome  these  is  a 


84  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

greater  task  than  ever  Hercules  performed.  Man 
seems  to  glory  in  certain  forms  of  ignorance,  and 
when  you  speak  of  the  positive,  unqualified  useful- 
ness of  birds  to  many  a  farmer,  he  will  toss  his  head 
and  thunder  forth,  "  You  can't  tell  me  anything  about 
that."  You  cannot  effectively  tell  him,  I  admit 
He  is  a  hopeless  fool ;  but  why  not  have  his  children 
taught  better  before  their  minds  are  warped  by  their 
idiotic  sire?  Our  school-teachers  have  the  oppor- 
tunity, but  I  doubt  if  it  is  ever  made  use  of.  It  is 
missionary  work  that  costs  neither  money  nor  lives, 
and  is  as  dignified  as  any  other  phase  of  human 
activity.  There  are  men  who  value  a  berry  more 
than  a  singing  thrush,  and  wear  themselves  out  in 
chasing  dimes, — horticultural  small  fry  that  never 
deal  in  dollars, — and  these  are  the  men  who  set 
snares  for  cat-birds  in  spite  of  the  law  of  the  State 
protecting  them.  Indeed,  unless  a  man  shoots  a 
singing-bird  on  the  highway  or  in  the  public  park, 
he  is  never  molested.  Then,  too,  there  are  sports- 
men who  claim  that  the  world  outside  of  city  limits 
is  for  their  sole  delectation,  and  demand  the  death 
of  every  hawk  and  owl  because  these  birds  occasion- 
ally dine  on  quail  or  grouse, — a  rare  occurrence  ; 
such  men  are  an  unreasonable  set  that  need  check- 
ing, for  they  have  already  wrought  endless  mischief. 
Lastly,  there  are  the  mighty  host  of  indifferent  peo- 
ple, men  otherwise  intelligent,  but  so  engrossed  with 
personal  affairs,  so  preoccupied  with  business,  that 
the  song  of  a  bird  never  falls  upon  their  ears  ;  and 
from  them  all  the  way  down  the  scale  of  humanity 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  85 

to  that  pitiful  spectacle,  a  woman  who  wears  a  bird's 
skin  on  her  hat,  the  culpable  accessory  of  that  vile 
creature,  a  bird-murderer. 

The  robin,  because  it  is  not  methodically  migra- 
tory, but  comes  and  goes  all  winter  and  is  here  at 
other  times,  is  perhaps  the  best  known  of  all  our 
birds.  The  name  is  so  prominent  in  children's  sto- 


Robin. 

ries,  in  folk-lore,  in  poetry,  and  in  general  litera- 
ture, that  even  town  children  who  have  never  seen 
the  bird  know  it  by  name  ;  but  to  many  grown 
people,  even  those  who  have  lived  all  their  lives  in 
the  country,  the  robin  is  not  familiar  as  a  winter  bird. 
It  is  known  to  come  and  go,  it  is  true,  but  is  supposed 
to  be  merely  in  transit,  and  just  where  the  observer 
happens  to  be  is  not  its  abiding-place.  This  impres- 
sion is  due  to  lack  of  observation,  for  the  birds  are 
as  well  disposed  towards  your  thicket  and  cedar-trees 

8 


86  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

as  those  of  some  far-off  neighbor.  This  crystal-clear, 
cold  January  day,  with  the  mercury  almost  at  zero,  I 
found  the  robins  on  the  south  hill-side,  and  seldom 
have  they  shown  to  better  advantage.  One  was 
perched  in  a  sapling  beech  to  which  the  leaves  still 
clung.  It  chirped  at  times  so  that  its  companions 
could  hear  it,  and  was  answered  by  them,  as  well  as  by 
the  nuthatches,  a  tree-creeper,  some  sparrows,  and  a 
winter  wren.  It  was  a  cozy,  warm  spot  wherein  these 
birds  had  gathered,  which,  strangely  enough,  was  filled 
with  music  even  when  every  bird  was  mute.  This 
robin  was  half  concealed  among  the  crisp  beech 
leaves,  and  these — not  the  birds  about  them — were 
singing.  The  breeze  caused  them  to  tremble  vio- 
lently, and  their  thin  edges  were  as  harp-strings,  the 
wiry  sound  produced  being  smoothed  by  the  crisp 
rattling  caused  by  the  leaves'  rapid  contact  with  each 
other.  It  was  much  like  the  click  of  butterflies'  wings, 
but  greatly  exaggerated.  A  simple  sound,  but  a 
sweet,  wholesome  one  that  made  me  think  less  of 
the  winter's  rigor  and  recalled  the  recent  warm  au- 
tumnal days.  They  were  singing  leaves,  and  the 
robin  watched  them  closely  as  he  stood  near  by,  and 
chirped  at  times,  as  if  to  encourage  them.  Altogether 
it  made  a  pretty  picture,  one  of  those  that  human 
skill  has  not  yet  transferred  to  a  printed  page  ;  and 
our  winter  sunshine  is  full  of  just  such  beauty. 

How  incomprehensible  it  is  that  any  one  should 
speak  of  the  few  robins  that  venture  to  remain  ! 
Flocks  of  a  hundred  or  more  are  not  uncommon  in 
the  depth  of  winter,  and  this  recalls  the  fact  that 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  87 

at  this  time  of  year  robins  are  never  alone.  It 
may  appear  so  for  a  time,  but  when  the  bird  you 
are  watching  is  ready  to  move  on  his  call  will  be 
answered  by  others  that  you  have  not  seen,  and 
half  a  dozen  at  least  will  fly  off  to  new  scenes. 
This  is  often  noticed  on  a  much  larger  scale  when 
we  flush  robins  in  a  field.  They  are  generally 
widely  scattered,  and,  go  where  you  will,  there  will 
be  one  or  two  hopping  before  you  ;  but  when  one 
takes  alarm  the  danger-cry  is  heard  by  all,  and 
a  great  flock  will  gather  in  the  air  in  an  incred- 
ibly short  time.  Robins  are  not  lovers  of  frozen 
ground  ;  they  know  where  the  earth  resists  frost, 
down  in  the  marshy  meadows,  and  there  they  con- 
gregate in  the  dreary  midwinter  afternoons  after 
spending  the  morning  feeding  upon  berries.  I  have 
seen  them  picking  those  of  the  cedar,  poison  ivy, 
greenbrier,  and  even  the  seedy,  withered  fruit  of  the 
poke  ;  but  at  times  this  question  of  food-supply 
must  be  a  difficult  problem  to  solve,  and  then  they 
leave  us  for  a  while  until  pleasanter  weather  pre- 
vails, when  they  venture  back.  During  the  last 
twenty  years,  however,  the  movements  of  the  robins 
have  been  little  influenced  by  the  weather. 

In  April,  when  the  chill  of  winter  is  no  longer  in 
its  bones,  the  robin  becomes  prominent,  and  the 
more  so  because  of  the  noise  it  makes.  It  sings 
fairly  well,  and  early  in  the  morning  there  is  a  world 
of  suggestiveness  in  the  ringing  notes.  The  song  is 
loud,  declamatory,  and  acceptable  more  for  the  pleas- 
ant thoughts  it  occasions  than  for  the  actual  melody. 


88  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

We  are  always  glad  to  hear  the  robins,  but  never  for 
the  same  reason  that  we  listen  to  a  wood-thrush. 
Of  course  there  are  exceptions.  The  world  is  full 
of  them.  Occasionally  a  robin  has  an  inspiration 
and  sings  like  the  musical  thrushes  to  which  it  is  re- 
lated, but  this  seldom  occurs.  We  accept  its  ordi- 
nary efforts  because  they  are  heard  first  when  there  is 
comparatively  little  bird-music,  and  also  for  the  reason 
that  every  note  is  one  of  cheerfulness.  If  ever  a  bird 
proclaims  "  Begone,  dull  care  !"  it  is  the  robin. 

There  is  an  inexhaustible  fund  of  amusement  and 
instruction  in  watching  a  pair  of  nesting  robins  ;  not 
so  much  because  at  such  times  they  are  different  from 
other  birds,  but  by  reason  of  their  endless  chatter- 
ing and  general  earnestness,  indicative  of  their  re- 
markable vocabulary.  All  birds  talk  and  some  both 
talk  and  sing,  as  any  careful  observer  well  knows  ; 
but,  except  in  the  case  of  the  crows,  this  wide  range 
of  utterances  is  not  so  easily  recognized  among  birds 
generally  as  it  is  among  the  robins.  It  is  something 
very  different  from  the  familiar  alarm-cry,  the 
soothing  of  the  nestlings,  or  the  gentle  chirp  of  mate 
to  mate ;  and,  as  with  ourselves,  a  difference  of 
opinion  among  them  is  the  parent  of  volubility.  An 
angry  robin  can  scold,  an  importunate  one  can  coax, 
a  victorious  one  can  exult ;  and,  while  it  is  all  robin 
language,  nobody  will  be  bold  enough  to  assert  that 
it  is  the  same  single  sound  or  note  differently  ex- 
pressed. It  is  really  a  wide  range  of  expression, 
always  the  same  under  similar  circumstances  ;  but 
never  is  the  ejaculation  of  ill  temper  uttered  when 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  89 

an  opposite  emotion  is  felt.  In  this  most  interesting 
feature  of  bird-life  there  is  yet  much  to  be  learned, 
and  an  excellent  field  is  open  to  the  enthusiastic 
out-door  naturalist  who  happily  may  be  blest  also 
with  the  patience  of  Job. 

With  the  close  of  the  nesting  season — and  this 
extends  well  into  the  summer — much  of  the  attrac- 
tiveness of  this  bird  disappears.  As  individual  mem- 
bers of  great  loose  flocks  that  fret  the  upper  air  with 
an  incessant  chirping,  they  offer  little  to  entertain  us 
even  when  the  less  hardy  minstrels  of  the  summer 
have  sought  their  southern  homes.  It  is  true  that 
they  add  something  to  the  picture  of  a  dreamy  Oc- 
tober afternoon  when  the  mellow  sunlight  tips  the 
wilted  grasses  with  dull  gold.  They  restore  for  the 
time  the  summer-tide  activity  of  the  meadows  when 
with  golden-winged  woodpeckers  they  chase  the 
crickets  in  the  close-cropped  pastures,  but  they  are 
soon  forgotten  if  a  song-sparrow  sings  or  a  wary  hawk 
screams  among  the  clouds.  Robins  are  always  wel- 
come, but  never  more  so  than  when  they  chatter,  on 
an  April  morning,  of  the  near  future  with  its  buds 
and  blossoms. 

To  refer  again  to  the  taming  of  wild  birds,  probably 
the  first  to  accept  our  invitation,  if  it  felt  that  it  was 
sincere,  would  be  the  much  maligned  cat-bird.  As 
it  is,  this  thrush  has  such  a  fancy  for  garden  life  and 
looks  with  such  favor  on  the  shrubbery  near  our 
houses,  that,  notwithstanding  much  persecution,  it  is 
willing  to  run  endless  risks  that  it  may  dwell  within 
the  shadow  of  our  daily  rounds  ;  nor  does  it  appear  to 

8* 


90  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

be  forever  on  the  watch  for  our  approach  and  quick 
to  dart  away  at  our  appearance.  We  never  have  to 
look  long  or  far  to  discover  it.  Indeed,  it  is  so  far 
trustful,  strange  to  say,  that  it  has  a  word  of  wel- 
come ;  and  would  we  were  always  moved  to  accept 
it  as  such  and  return  the  attention.  I  speak  without 
hesitation,  for  I  have  known  of  kindness  being  shown 
a  cat-bird,  and  there  was  abundant  evidence  of  its 
appreciation.  We  are  apt  to  hear  the  bird  spoken 
of  as  mischievous,  but  a  better  term  is  full  of  fun. 
The  cat-bird  has  this  quality  in  greater  measure  than, 
possibly,  any  other  species. 

It  is  not  unusual  for  one  or  more  of  these  birds  to 
stay  all  winter  in  some  secluded  spot  where  green- 
brier  berries  and  insects  under  dead  leaves  supply 
them  with  food.  Occasionally  a  chewink  and  a  cat- 
bird in  friendly  association  will  remain  from  autumn 
until  spring  about  a  low,  swampy  piece  of  ground 
which  the  water  that  wells  to  the  surface  keeps  free 
from  frost.  It  is  interesting  to  meet  with  these  birds 
when  the  ground  is  covered  with  snow  and  not  even 
a  green  leaf  is  visible  ;  at  such  a  time  the  proper 
winter  birds,  I  fancy,  look  upon  them  with  suspicion  ; 
at  least  I  so  interpreted  a  great  commotion  one  morn- 
ing when  a  Carolina  wren  was  haranguing  the  gath- 
ered company  at  the  top  of  its  voice,  while  at  the 
same  time  tree-sparrows  chattered,  a  jay  screamed, 
and  every  bird  of  the  meadows  and  hill-side  collected 
in  a  fern- clad  nook  that  yet  retained  a  trace  of  sum- 
mer's freshness.  All  that  I  could  discover  of  an 
unusual  character  was  a  chewink  and  a  cat-bird  that 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  91 

had  sought  refuge  under  a  projecting  ledge  of  stone, 
as  if  the  wren  and  its  companions  had  threatened 
these  out-of-season  birds  with  destruction.  I  learned 
on  that  occasion  that  the  vocabulary  of  this  same 
Carolina  wren  was  very  considerable.  It  did  not,  as 
usual,  repeat  some  pet  phrase  over  and  over  again, 
but  exhausted  every  variation  of  expression  of  which 
it  was  capable.  Had  I  not  been  watching  the  bird,  its 
identification  would  have  been  difficult.  But 


Cat-birds. 


with  the  coming  of  May  and  the  return  of  the  migrants, 
the  cat-bird  assumes  its  position  among  them  and  is 
then  no  coward.  Though  it  could  not  possibly  be 
more  plainly  colored,  this  bird  is  an  ornament  to 
May.  It  is  a  bearer  of  glad  tidings,  and  when  moved 
to  express  its  feelings,  to  give  tongue  to  the  emotions 


92  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

common  to  all  birds  at  this  joyous  season,  there  is 
melody,  exquisite  melody,  in  the  song  that  it  pours 
forth  on  the  flower-scented  air  and  sends  echoing 
through  the  tangled  thickets  and  over  the  weedy 
meadows.  Is  this  wonderful  song  learned  in  the 
south,  where  the  mocking-bird  may  be  the  teacher, 
and  as  the  weeks  roll  by  gradually  forgotten? 
During  May  I  have  heard  the  cat-birds  sing  such  a 
marvellous  series  of  melodious  notes  that  it  seemed 
as  if  some  wonderful  songsters  of  another  land  were 
disguised  in  their  plumage.  When  the  orchard  is  as 
fairy-land  in  pink  and  white  array  the  cat-bird  enters 
into  the  spirit  of  the  scene  and,  moved  by  the  mag- 
nificence of  the  stage  upon  which  it  treads,  sings  with 
an  exultation  that  magnifies  the  sweetness  of  every 
note  it  utters.  Not  a  trace  of  discord  now.  The 
world  has  been  perfected,  so  the  bird  believes,  and 
every  thought  and  shade  of  feeling  is  turned  to 
music. 

Why  called  cat-bird  ?  Is  it  feline  in  disposition  ? 
By  no  means.  Then  why  by  name  ?  Therein  lies  the 
secret  of  the  bird's  misfortune,  for  the  prejudice  against 
it  is  as  wide-spread  as  the  geographical  range  of  the 
bird,  and  is,  I  fear,  ineradicable.  Unfounded  preju- 
dices are  always  the  deepest  rooted  and  draw  additional 
vitality  from  every  attacking  object.  It  might  pos- 
sibly be  much  better  to  say  nothing  about  the  matter, 
and  as  years  roll  by  let  the  ill  feeling  die  of  neglect, 
as  often  happens  when  the  world  moves  on  as  if  it  had 
never  existed.  But,  keeping  closer  to  our  subject,  we 
find — or  think  we  do — that  after  the  nesting  is  over 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  93 

and  only  commonplace  cares  concern  the  bird,  the 
song  that  charmed  is  sung  no  more,  and  while  we  are 
yet  hoping  and  expecting  at  least  one  more  repe- 
tition, we  are  greeted  with  a  complaining  mee-aa,  or 
something  like  it,  that  is  decidedly  cat-like,  and,  what 
is  worse,  sounds  much  like  the  "  bah!  "of  impu- 
dence in  reply  to  a  civil  question.  No  one  likes  this 
cry  of  the  cat-bird.  It  suggests  insult ;  and,  while 
the  man  will  turn  away  in  disgust,  the  boy  will  reply 
with  a  well-aimed  stone  that  requires  all  the  bird's 
alertness  to  dodge  successfully ;  and  this  mee-aa  is 
all  we  hear  until  the  birds  leave  us  in  mid-autumn. 
If  nothing  succeeds  like  success,  as  illustrated  by  the 
cat-bird  in  the  orchard,  then  nothing  fails  so  com- 
pletely as  failure,  as  shown  in  the  vocal  efforts  of 
this  voluble  bird  during  the  late  summer  and  fall. 
Do  one  thing  well  and  perfection  is  expected  in  all 
directions  ;  yet  who  among  men  and  which  of  the 
birds  has  ever  reached  this  high  degree  ?  The  cat- 
bird has  reasons  for  not  singing  in  August,  and  for 
what  we  interpret  as  complaining  instead.  It  is  none 
of  our  business.  We  are  wholly  unreasonable.  There 
is  enough  sweetness  in  the  May-day  orchard  song 
of  the  bird  to  remain  with  us  as  a  delightful  rec- 
ollection until  May-day  comes  again,  and  for  this 
we  should  be  thankful.  The  musical  cat-bird  is  a 
distinct  success  ;  the  fretful  cat-bird,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  not  a  failure.  If  we  ignore  its  voice  and 
consider  its  ways,  we  are  sure  of  abundant  entertain- 
ment, for  let  it  be  understood  at  the  very  outset  that 
the  bird  means  well  and  has  no  thought  of  showing 


94  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

any  prejudice  against  us.  It  returns  good  for  evil 
in  all  cases.  After  the  nesting-time,  when  food  is 
perhaps  becoming  scarce,  these  birds  will  come  quite 
up  to  our  houses  in  search  of  something  to  eat.  If 
not  driven  away,  they  will  daily  become  more  fre- 
quent visitors,  and  at  last,  like  the  alien  sparrows,  a 
fixture  in  the  yard.  I  speak  now  of  the  country  and 
of  those  quaint  old-fashioned  yards  about  colonial 
houses  where  time  has  had  opportunity  to  complete 
the  work  that  the  farmer  thought  he  had  finished 
some  time  during  the  last  century.  In  one  such 
yard  the  cat-birds  learned  to  know  the  inmates  of 
the  house  and  were  not  afraid.  They  looked  for 
their  share  of  food  when  the  chickens  were  fed,  and 
never  went  away  hungry.  These  birds  did  not  repeat 
their  spring-tide  songs,  but  never  forgot  to  show  their 
appreciation  of  what  was  done  for  them  :  this  was 
demonstrated  by  their  actions  ;  and  nowhere  in  all 
the  country  round  was  there  more  or  better  fruit  than 
in  this  farm's  kitchen  garden.  This  fact  should  be 
sufficient  for  the  wise  ;  but  of  what  avail  is  wisdom 
where  prejudice  abounds  ? 

Although  our  experience  has  taught  us  about 
what  to  expect  during  the  latter  days  of  April  and 
early  May,  there  are  a  good  many  occurrences  in 
the  nature  of  surprises.  When  we  hear  the  long- 
tailed  thrasher — it  used  to  be  called  a  thrush  and 
turns  out  to  be  a  wren — for  the  first  time  we  wonder 
if  it  ever  sang  quite  so  well  before.  Is  there  not  a 
little  more  vim  in  each  succeeding  note  when,  in 
melodious  accents,  this  fine  bird  is  preaching  to  us  ? 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  95 

Its  "song"  is  declamatory  rather  than  reminiscent; 
more  in  the  nature  of  thankfulness  and  insistence 
that  life  is  more  sunshine  than  shadow ;  the  re- 
verse of  all  which  is  the  burden  of  the  melancholy 
thrushes. 

Not  once  in  twenty-one  consecutive  years  have 
two  pairs  of  these  birds  failed  to  appear  near  my 
house  and  remain  during  the  summer.  I  might  call 


Thrasher. 

them  high  and  low  birds  ;  for  those  on  the  east  side 
always  build  well  up  from  the  ground,  while  the  west 
side  pair  build  on  the  ground  or  near  it.  Otherwise 
there  is  no  perceptible  difference.  They  sing  in  the 
same  way,  with  equal  emphasis,  and  live  with  such 
regularity  that  they  may  be  looked  upon  as  feathered 
almanacs.  They  come  together,  sing  at  the  same 
early  summer  date,  and  then  substitute  for  their  music 


g6  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

a  harsh  chuck  that  tells  you  of  their  presence  long 
before  you  see  the  birds,  and  on  the  same  day  they 
depart  Perhaps  the  red  thrushes,  as  my  neighbors 
call  them,  are  less  methodical  when  away  from  civ- 
ilization, for  they  are  found  far  from  human  habi- 
tations ;  but  those  in  and  about  my  door-yard  are 
painfully  regular  in  their  habits. 

Like  many  another  descendant  of  the  followers  of 
George  Fox,  I  have  often  wondered  what  the  Friends 
really  thought,  years  and  years  ago,  of  music  ;  nor 
is  this  strange,  for  they  were  an  inconsistent  people, 
as  are  all  of  us  at  this  day,  and  among  them  precept 
and  practice  did  not  always  go  hand  in  hand. 
Doubtless,  in  those  early- days,  if  some  great-grand- 
father condescended  to  look  at  a  thrush,  he  com- 
mended the  snuff-brown  coat,  though  he  must  have 
gazed  disapprovingly  at  the  spotted  waistcoat ;  but 
what  were  his  thoughts  when  the  bird  flooded  his 
fields  with  ravishing  music  ?  These  good  men  did 
not  presume  to  criticise  Providence,  but  it  looks  as  if 
some  of  them  wanted  to  do  so.  Now,  those  who 
assume  to  know  all  about  Quakerism  will  probably 
assert  that  this  is  far-fetched  and  absurd,  but,  unfortu- 
nately for  them  and  many  a  Friend,  it  is  true.  There 
was,  is,  and  always  will  be  inconsistency  throughout. 
Fanaticism  in  all  directions,  save  dollars  and  good 
dinners,  is  an  unfair  definition,  but  enthusiastic  in- 
terest in  bird-music  has  been  disapproved  of  in  open 
meeting  in  Arch  Street,  Philadelphia,  from  the  fear 
that  it  might  call  forth  a  love  of  melody  in  children. 
Yet  how  often  has  it  happened  that  two  Friends, 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY. 


97 


conversing  together,  have  each  wished  that  the  other 
would  stop  talking  because  a  thrush  was  singing, 
and  yet  neither  had  the  courage  to  express  his 
thoughts  !  Another  absurdity,  says  the  critic ;  but 
what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it,  my  friend  ?  it  is 
true.  Surely  it  is  not  correct  to  say  that  critics  are 
not  truthful. 

I  shall  never  cease  to  be  thankful  that  birds  are 
no  respecters  of  persons  ;  years  ago  even  the  cardinal 
dared  trespass  on  the  fields  of  a  Quaker,  and  the 
oriole  swung  in  his 
willows,  and  every 
gay  bird  of  the  mi- 
grating host  raided 
h  i  s  garden  and 
danced  at  times 
and  set  the  bad 
example  of  flirting ; 
and,  while  there 
was  no  singing  in 
the  house,  there 
was  a  never-ceas- 
ing flow  of  melody 
in  the  orchard,  in  the  garden,  down  the  long  lane, 
about  every  field,  and  over  the  wide  meadows.  Sing- 
ing and  merry-making  everywhere  ;  and  in  spite  of 
preaching  and  frowns  and  every  mild  repression  of 
the  musical  instinct  in  children,  there  existed  a  secret 
thankfulness  in  the  old  Quaker's  heart  that  the  birds 
about  him  were  never-failing  sources  of  sweet  sounds. 
That  " local  color"  or  "atmosphere"  or  "peculiar 
E  g  9 


Wood-thrush. 


98      .  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

something"  which  the  critics  prate  about,  but  have 
never  yet  defined,  is  a  myth.  There  prevails,  how- 
ever, among  Quakers,  the  same  desire  to  appear  to 
be  what  they  are  not  as  obtains  among  all  conditions 
of  men,  of  whatever  race  or  country. 

How  convenient  are  exceptions  !  I  was  taken, 
when  a  mere  child,  by  an  old  Friend  who  could 
cleverly  imitate  many  a  bird-note,  to  hear  the  wood- 
thrush  sing ;  and  how  often  did  he  send  me  hither 
and  yon  to  look  for  the  birds  that  I  heard,  but  saw 
not !  and  little  wonder,  for  his  ventriloquism  was  the 
source  of  all  the  sounds  that  I  tried  to  follow ;  and 
how  he  laughed — a  wholesome,  loud  roll  of  merri- 
ment— when  I  at  last  discovered  the  secret ! 

At  various  times  I  have  praised  the  wood-thrush, 
— which  is  a  ridiculous  assumption  on  any  one's 
part,  when  we  reflect  upon  it, — and  suppose  I  shall 
be  ready  yet  again  if  called  upon  to  do  so  ;  but  why 
should  I?  These  frantic  efforts  to  put  music  into 
print  are  painfully  weak  and  unavailing.  The  proper 
comment  is  :  go  into  the  woods  and  hear  the  bird  ; 
not  simply  stay  at  home  and  hear  about  it  Is  not 
this  the  proper  purpose  of  a  book  describing  the  out- 
door world  :  to  offer  an  inducement  to  tarry  longer 
in  the  garden  and  less  beneath  the  roof-tree,  to  take 
a  walk  with  open  ears  as  well  as  open  eyes  ?  And 
that  walk  is  well  taken  that  has  a  singing  thrush  at 
the  far  end  of  it.  If  you  do  not  return  wiser,  you 
will  at  least  return  happier,  unless  you  are  some  path- 
ological specimen  with  but  a  remnant  of  vitality  not 
worth  the  having. 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  99 

Of  all  our  New  Jersey  birds,  the  wood-thrush  is 
held  to  be  the  chief  singer.  It  is  heresy  to  think 
otherwise  ;  and,  having  said  this,  what  remains  to 
be  said  ?  That  marvel,  the  rose-breasted  grosbeak, 
the  cat-bird  in  May,  the  long-tailed  thrasher,  the 
wrens,  the  crested  tit,  and  all  the  long  list  of  summer 
birds  stand  out  more  or  less  prominently,  but  can 
never  climb  to  the  eminence  reached  by  the  wood- 
thrush.  You  doubtless  think  so,  so  does  your  neigh- 
bor, as  also  the  community  behind  him.  It  may  be 
true,  but  I  do  not  believe  it.  I  object  to  the  melan- 
choly that  permeates  the  whole  song.  A  poet  once 
wandered  as  far  as  my  house,  and,  after  sitting  in 
the  shade  of  the  old  oaks  for  half  the  afternoon, 
remarked,  "  Your  thrushes  have  been  calling  in  vain 
for  Geraldine,  dear  Geraldine.  I  do  wish  she  would 
come  or  else  that  the  birds  would  forget  her." 
There  was  something  in  the  way  he  put  it  that  ex- 
pressed more  than  the  crankiness  of  a  poet.  There 
is  a  sadness  that  will  tell  at  last  upon  even  a  soured 
old  man,  and  the  thrush's  song  comes  within  this 
category.  Yet  how  we  should  miss  them  if  the  birds 
failed  to  come  !  This,  however,  I  have  never  known 
them  to  do.  There  are  old  apple-trees  in  the  lane 
whereon  they  have  nested  for  half  a  century ;  there  is 
a  springy  hollow,  filled  with  grape-vines,  greenbrier, 
and  sumac,  that  has  always  been  a  summer  home 
to  them  ;  a  seckel-pear-tree  that  has  weathered  the 
storms  of  half  the  last  century  and  all  of  this  still 
affords  them  shelter  as  the  sun  goes  down,  when  their 
sweet,  sad  song  is  heard  above  all  others, — a  song  as 


ioo  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

rich,  as  cloying,  as  the  fruit  of  the  famous  tree. 
But  among  the  lilacs  lining  the  path  to  the  spring- 
house  is,  perhaps,  the  place  that  I  love  best  to  hear 
these  thrushes  ;  for,  however  grand  the  music,  how- 
ever perfect  the  melody,  however  complete  every 
requirement  that  science  demands,  is  not  the  charm, 
the  subtle  essence  that  reaches  the  heart,  due  to  the 
thoughts  that  well  up  within  us  as  we  listen  ?  Can 
we,  in  fact,  entertain  a  thought  of  music  wholly  free 
from  association  ?  Is  it  not  mere  sound  if  it  reaches 
no  farther  than  the  ear?  To  me  the  song  of  the 
wood-thrush  is  an  invitation  to  dream,  when  it  does 
not  unlock  the  door  of  the  dead  years  and  recall 
the  ghosts ;  but  this  is  not  the  place  for  autobiography. 
Given  a  dewy  evening  in  early  June,  when  freshness 
is  stamped  upon  every  living  thing ;  given  the  color 
of  the  season's  brightest  blossoms  and  the  scent  of 
its  choicest  odors ;  given  that  mysterious  purple 
light  that  fills  the  whole  earth  at  the  close  of  day, 
and  with  these  the  songs  of  many  thrushes,  and  there 
remains  no  trace  of  harshness  in  the  world.  The 
thorns  are  dulled  ;  the  angles  rounded  off;  we  listen, 
for  the  time  at  peace,  as  if  the  dross  of  our  imperfect 
selves  had  been  taken  away. 

Incomprehensible  as  it  may  seem  to  intelligent 
people,  there  are  still  those  who  maintain  that  flow- 
ers are  made  beautiful  to  please  man,  and  that  birds 
sing  for  his  delectation  alone.  Such  rubbish  is 
really  unworthy  of  notice  ;  but  I  would  like  to  ask, 
if  this  be  so,  why  it  is  that  the  best  music  is  heard 
and  the  most  beautiful  flowers  bloom  where  some- 


THE  MASTERS  OF  MELODY.  101 

times  for  years  together  no  human  beings  come.  It 
is  down  in  the  books  that  as  a  musician  the  hermit 
thrush  outranks  all  others  of  its  kind.  It  is  claimed 
to  have  a  more  spiritual  song, — to  reach  in  this  di- 
rection a  little  beyond  all  others.  I  have  heard  this 
thrush  in  the  mountains  of  North  Carolina,  in  the 
woods  and  by-ways  of  New  England  and  Canada, 
when  hidden  among  rocks  and  trembling  ferns  in 
Northern  Pennsylvania,  and  twice  along  the  Wissa- 
hickon,  near  Philadelphia,  I  have  heard  it  at  its 
best ;  but  is  its  song  superior  to  that  of  all  wood- 
thrushes?  I  honestly  doubt  it.  There  is  such  a 
wide  range  in  the  musical  merits  of  individual  birds 
that  it  is  scarcely  fair  to  make  a  comparison,  and  in 
localities  where  both  species  occur  it  would  be  diffi- 
cult to  determine  which  bird  was  singing.  Does  the 
locality  influence  a  bird's  song  ?  This  is  not  a  silly 
question.  No  caged  bird  ever  sang  as  well  as  its 
free  brother,  not  even  a  mocking-bird  ;  and  may  it 
not  be  that  the  primeval  forest  the  hermit  loves  so 
well,  with  all  its  grandeur  of  giant  trees,  mossy  rocks, 
still  ponds,  wild  water-falls,  and  the  companionship 
of  nature's  fiercest  forms  of  life,  inspires  this  thrush 
to  efforts  that  we  seldom  hear  in  the  tamer  haunts 
of  its  cousin  ?  but  is  not  the  less  pretentious  wood- 
thrush  sometimes  impelled  to  an  unusual  effort,  and, 
so  moved,  does  it  not  accomplish  all  that  makes  the 
hermit  one  of  the  musical  marvels  of  the  country? 
I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  have  not  yet  been  convinced 
to  the  contrary. 

9* 


CHAPTER   IV. 

PROFESSIONAL   AND   AMATEUR. 

THE  popular  names  that  have  been  given  by 
everybody — which  means  no  responsible  body 
— to  our  common  birds  are  about  as  contradictory 
and  misleading  as  are  the  sound  and  spelling  of  some 
of  our  words.  There  is  one  prominent  group  in  our 
avi-fauna  that  is  known  collectively  as  "flycatchers," 
and  so  might  be  supposed  to  be  experts  or  profes- 
sionals in  that  line  ;  yet  we  have  catchers  of  flies 
that  are  far  more  graceful  when  so  engaged  and 
far  more  sure  in  their  movements  ;  that  do  not  miss 
once  where  flycatchers  fail  many  times.  For  in- 
stance, there  are  the  wood-pewee,  the  pewees  of 
our  out-buildings  and  bridges,  and  the  olive-sided 
flycatcher  that  merely  passes  through  the  State  and 
summers  in  New  England, — all  professionals,  so  to 
speak.  But  what  of  the  vireos,  the  swallows,  and 
the  night-hawks?  If  we  could  but  gather  some 
statistics  we  would  stand  on  firmer  ground,  and  in 
this  connection  I  dare  venture  one  or  more  assertions 
— not  now  ;  hereafter. 

102 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  103 

I  have  mentioned  the  pewees.  The  more  fa- 
miliar one  is  known  to  everybody,  and  it  is  delightful 
to  hear  its  cheery  call,  often  during  the  blustering 
days  of  March,  coming  as  the  bird  does  before  the 
sharpest  eyes  can  detect  the  slightest  change  in  the 
weather  beyond  the  later  setting  of  the  sun.  At 
home  there  are  always  pewees  in  the  open  wagon- 
shed,  a  pair  under  the  floor  of  the  bridge  in  the 
lane,  and  another  pair  on  the  top  of  one  of  the 
pillars  of  the  north  porch.  These  birds  come  as 
surely  as  the  seasons ;  they  are  fixtures  like  the 
growths  of  weeds  in  the  fields  and  of  weedy  thoughts 
in  ourselves.  The  thought  is,  of  course,  a  silly  one, 
but  I  have  often  fancied  one  particular  pair  to  be  the 
same  that  I  watched  with  wonder  almost  half  a  cen- 
tury ago.  Pewees,  like  Tennyson's  brook,  come  and 
go  forever,  whatever  men  may  do.  But  over  the 
garden  fence,  along  the  hill-side  with  its  wonderful 
old  oaks,  and  about  the  three  beeches  there  lives  all 
summer  long  the  quiet,  meditative,  methodical,  un- 
obtrusive, plainly  dressed,  yet  dear,  delightful  wood- 
pewee.  No  one  can  speak  ill  of  such  a  bird.  Even 
the  bee-keeper  will  not  say  that  it  raids  upon  his 
hives.  Perhaps  it  does,  but  I  guess  nobody  cares  ; 
and  I  would  willingly  raise  bees  for  its  benefit  rather 
than  not  have  it  within  sight  and  hearing.  It  is  a  bird 
of  the  big  woods  rather  than  of  the  sproutlands,  yet  if 
there  are  old  trees  near  your  house,  this  pewee  will 
come  almost  as  close  to  you  as  ever  did  its  cousin  that 
is  nesting  on  your  front  porch.  But  it  is  better  to  go 
to  some  birds  than  have  them  come  to  you.  Door- 


IO4  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

step  ornithology  is  well  enough  in  its  way,  and  the 
more  we  have  of  it  the  better,  but  it  is  also  well  to 
keep  out  of  doors  a  good  deal,  and  probably  nothing 
in  an  unexciting  way  is  more  pleasant  than  to  meet 
this  unpretending  flycatcher  down  some  woodland 
path.  The  chances  are  that  you  will  find  it  perched 
well  up  on  some  tall  tree,  but  where  there  is  plenty 
of  open  space  about  it.  The  bird  will  probably 
make  no  demonstration  if  you  pass  quietly  by,  but, 
even  when  you  are  nearest,  sighting  some  tempting 
fly,  will  sail  into  the  air,  seal  the  insect's  fate  with  a 
cruel  click  of  its  beak,  and  before  it  has  regained  its 
perch  sometimes  drawls  out  a  prolonged  pe-a-wee, 
certainly  suggestive  of  satisfaction  and,  as  I  have 
always  thought,  of  laziness, — a  complaint,  as  it  were, 
that  so  much  flycatching  must  needs  be  done  before 
the  desired  "square  meal"  can  be  secured.  Poor 
pewee  !  It  is  always  hungry.  I  have  seen  it  at  sun- 
rise darting  at  flies  in  the  chilly,  dismal,  fog-laden  air, 
and  until  noon,  though  the  woods  were  as  another 
Inferno,  still  at  work,  instead  of  resting  when  other 
birds  were  taking  a  nap  ;  not  even  during  the  quiet 
of  mid-afternoon,  when  the  sun  seemed  to  have 
paused  in  his  career ;  no,  nor  yet  at  sundown,  when 
even  the  last  robin  had  chirped  to  the  world  "good- 
night ;"  but  at  last,  when,  in  the  fading  light,  its 
skill  was  no  longer  equal  to  the  task,  it,  too,  bade 
me  farewell,  its  mournful,  tired-out  pe-a-wee  being 
the  last  bird-sound  of  the  day,  lost,  except  to  sharpest 
ears,  in  the  hum  of  a  million  insects  and  the  din  of 
countless  meadow-frogs  and  toads. 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR. 


105 


Wood-pewees  favor  us  with  their  presence  for 
about  six  months  of  the  year,  but  usually  it  is  a  week 
or  two  less  than  this.  They  want  the  foliage  so  far 
advanced  that  they  may  have  to  welcome  them  on 
their  arrival  that  beautiful  green  light  that  fills  the 
woodland  in  early  May.  As  our  seasons  are  noted 
for  their  irregularity,  there  being  no  recognizable 
law  controlling  them,  so  does  the  date  of  the  wood- 
pewee's  arrival  show  decided  varia- 
tions year  after  year ;  but  how  do 
they  know  to  the  very  day  when  the 
conditions  are 
suitable?  This 
is  one  of  the 
interesting 
problems  of 
migration,  for 
in  our  miser- 
ably changeable  and  exasperating 
climate  there  is  nothing  that  man 
can  see  that  acts  as  a  guide  to  the 
birds,  and  yet  they  seldom  make 
any  serious  mistake.  Still,  though 
this  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  seasons,  a  dreary 
northeast  rain  sometimes  sets  in  at  the  time  of  their 
first  appearance,  and  then,  weary,  if  not  weak,  from 
days  of  travel,  they  have  a  miserable  time  of  it  for 
a  while.  Their  feathers  are  neither  so  oily  nor  so 
closely  shingled  as  to  shed  the  water,  and  could  the 
birds  not  find  shelter,  many  would  perish.  Such 
storms  increase  the  mortality  among  migratory  birds 


Wood-pewee. 


io6  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

to  a  much  greater  degree,  according  to  my  obser- 
vations, than  do  thunder-showers,  however  violent, 
affect  the  nests  and  young  later  in  the  summer. 

My  most  vivid  impressions  of  the  wood-pewee 
are  of  those  that  I  have  seen  during  still  August 
afternoons.  August  is  the  month  of  completion. 
In  no  direction  will  you  find  a  new  activity.  It  is 
the  month  of  rest  from  the  burden,  if  not  from  the 
heat,  of  summer  ;  and  when,  after  a  show  of  activity 
on  my  part  in  the  forenoon,  I  rouse  from  my  mid- 
day nap  and  wander  out  to  the  three  beeches,  it  is 
chiefly  to  see  my  friend  the  wood-pewee.  The 
red-eyed  vireo,  tireless  as  the  babbling  brook,  may 
be  singing  in  its  half-sleepy  way,  as  if  preaching 
under  protest ;  the  tree-toad  may  be  calling  for  the 
rain  that  never  comes  just  when  it  is  needed;  and 
the  cuckoo  may  glide  through  the  tangled  maze  of 
leafy  boughs,  a  spirit  rather  than  a  bird  ;  all  this  may 
come  to  pass  ;  but  suddenly  all  sounds  are  hushed 
and  there  is  no  evidence  of  life  near  by ;  not  a  leaf 
trembles,  and  our  strained  attention  is  centred  on 
the  hope  of  some  new  break  in  the  silence.  It  comes 
at  last,  and  we  are  glad  to  hear  the  far-off,  dreamy 
pe-a-wee,  sounding  as  if  some  awakened  bird  was 
yawning.  The  deliberation,  the  indifference,  the 
entire  absence  of  interest  in  the  effect  produced,  as 
expressed  by  this  bird's  manner  when  it  sings,  are 
remarkable.  It  is  as  though  it  was  a  task  that  had 
to  be  performed,  and  the  sooner  it  was  over  the 
better.  I  have  seen  hundreds  of  men  who  re- 
sembled wood-pewees  in  these  respects.  These  pe- 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  107 

culiarities  are  common  to  no  other  bird  ;  but  then,  of 
an  August  afternoon,  what  more  can  we  wish  than 
this  dreamy  indifference  ?  It  fits  the  time  and  season. 
Liveliness  and  activity  are  certainly  out  of  place  just 
now.  If  I  knew  that  birds  were  gathered  together 
at  such  a  time  I  would  shun  them,  at  least  until  the 
sun  went  down.  But  there  is  a  smouldering  fire  in 
the  wood-pewee  that  can  flash  into  full  ignition  on 
occasion.  Let  some  bold  beetle  fly  across  the  field, 
buzzing  and  humming  as  if  in  defiance  of  all  the 
flycatching  fraternity.  Those  loose  feathers  on  the 
pewee's  head  stand  up  and  tremble,  those  eyes  that 
but  a  moment  before  were  lustreless  now  shine  like 
live  coals,  and  the  presuming  beetle  is  at  once  pur- 
sued and  captured.  At  times  there  is  a  conflict ; 
not  every  insect  will  slide  without  resistance  down  a 
pewee's  throat.  Never,  though,  is  there  any  lasting 
battle.  Soon  the  disabled  beetle  is  devoured  in  part, 
and  then  what  a  change  takes  place  in  the  manner  of 
the  bird's  song  !  On  such  occasions  I  have  heard,  as 
near  as  I  could  catch  it,  pt-pt-pe-we-wee—pe-wttp  ! 
A  sort  of  exultation,  as  if  it  had  been  twitted  and  re- 
plied with  more  energy  than  politeness.  Again,  while 
watching  them  during  the  long  August  hours,  I  have 
seen  battles  royal  with  moths  and  butterflies  that 
came  within  the  pewee's  danger-line.  There  was  ever 
the  one  result,  the  same  sad  ending  for  the  insect ; 
but  the  fight,  though  always  to  a  finish,  was  not  al- 
ways brief.  I  have  often  marvelled  at  the  wonder- 
ful pluck  of  a  half-wingless  butterfly.  Its  efforts  to 
outwit  the  bird  gave  me  a  fair  insight  into  the  psy- 


io8  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

chology  of  these  "frail  children  of  the  air"  so 
graphically  described  by  Scudder.  But  these  breaks 
in  the  monotonous  routine  of  a  wood-pewee's  life  are 
not  many,  otherwise  I  fear  the  poor  bird  would  col- 
lapse. Though  never  idle,  it  is  always  methodical, 
and  evidently  abhors  haste,  perhaps  hurrying  a 
little  more  than  usual  when  the  beautiful  nest  is 
finished — a  mossy  cup  upon  the  upper  side  of  a 
straight,  outreaching  branch — and  there  are  three  or 
four  mouths  to  fill  besides  its  own.  This  additional 
care  does  not  lessen  the  singing,  even  for  a  time,  and 
the  dreamy  pe-a-wee  continues  to  be  heard  long 
after  the  nestlings  have  tested  their  wings.  Up  to 
the  very  date  of  the  pewee's  departure  it  derives 
abundant  satisfaction  from  its  drawling  song,  and  I 
listen  with  regret  only  when  I  fear  that  it  is  the  last 
time  I  shall  hear  it  until  spring  comes  again. 

Very  different  is  the  wood-pewee's  cousin,  the 
doughty  kingbird.  Here  we  have  a  flycatcher  that 
is  not  retiring  in  its  disposition  ;  a  bird  of  the  open 
air ;  one  that  feels  it  has  a  right  in  the  world  and 
has  the  courage  of  its  convictions.  A  lively  bird 
that  mostly  squeaks,  if  moved  to  express  itself, 
though  it  can  sing  in  a  humble  way,  it  is  said  ;  but 
it  makes  amends  for  all  vocal  deficiencies  by  an  ex- 
hibition of  all  the  excellent  qualities  of  bird-nature. 
A  little  too  quarrelsome,  perhaps  ;  certainly  so  in  the 
minds  of  crows  and  the  larger  hawks  ;  but  from  our 
stand-point  this  is  a  source  of  amusement,  we  not 
being  directly  interested.  It  is  a  little  strange  that 
most  people  love  to  witness  a  fight,  whether  among 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR. 


109 


birds  or  men.     In  our  daily  papers  the  pugilist  figures 
more  largely  than  the  preacher. 

I  cannot  imagine  a  positively  happy  kingbird  in 
a  country  where  there  are  no  worm-fences,  those 
zigzag  piles  of  old  rails  that  invite  all  the  weeds  of 
the  region  and  effectively  defy  the  stingy  old  farmers 


Kingbird. 

who  begrudge  every  unplanted  thing  room  to  grow, 
and  who  hate  nature  generally  as  they  do  poisonous 
snakes.  The  ornithology  of  many  a  farm  in  Central 
New  Jersey  is  comprised  in  the  bird-life  that  collects 
along  these  fences.  Startling  as  it  may  seem,  I  have 
knowledge  of  one  such  fence — or  what  remains  of  it 
— that  is  more  than  a  century  old. 

On  the  end  of  the  highest  stake  of  the  fence,  on 
the  morning  of  the  bird's  arrival,  this  restless  fly- 
catcher takes  its  stand,  and  there  is  just  the  merest 

10 


i  io  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

trace  of  music  in  its  harsh  chirp,  for  it  is  likely  to  be 
thoroughly  amiable  now,  if  ever ;  it  exults  that  the 
prosy  sojourn  in  the  far  south  is  over  for  some  six 
months,  and  that  the  days  of  a  right  royal  good  time 
are  before  it  There  is  little  danger  of  exaggeration 
in  speaking  of  the  kingbird.  It  looks  all  that  it  is, 
and  is  all  that  it  looks. 

When  the  crab-apple-blossoms  are  in  the  heyday 
of  their  loveliness  there  is  a  lull  in  the  bird's  activity  ; 
at  this  time  its  thoughts  turn  from  flies  to  its  fellow- 
kind,  and  the  matter  of  courtship  is,  as  it  always 
should  be, — so  men  think, — short,  sweet,  and  sure  ; 
either  this,  or  the  bird  takes  it  for  granted  that  one  is 
as  good  as  another,  and  seeks  no  explanation  of  the 
first  refusal.  There  is  sound  sense  in  that,  too. 
Now  follows  nest-building,  and  the  structure,  though 
not  architecturally  pretentious,  is  strong  enough  to 
withstand  the  storms  of  summer  ;  then  for  weeks  the 
master  lives  about  the  old  crab-apple-tree  and,  while 
apparently  occupied  only  with  its  personal  concerns, 
keeps  an  eye  on  its  mate  and  defends  its  castle  against 
all  intruders.  As  regards  chasing  crows,  possibly  this 
is  a  matter  of  fun  for  the  kingbird.  I  have  seen  them 
go  very  far  out  of  their  way  to  harass  a  carrion  crow 
that  had  no  intention  of  raiding  their  nests  or  coming 
within  a  mile  of  the  nest-tree.  It  is  possible  that  this 
dislike  to  crows  is  inherited,  being  due  to  conditions 
that  have  passed  away,  for  these  birds  are  not  likely 
now  to  destroy  a  kingbird's  nest,  living,  as  they  do, 
in  constant  fear  of  their  plucky  tormenter.  When 
the  young  birds  appear  there  is  added  the  duty  of 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  in 

finding  food  for  them,  and  this  the  male  bird  does 
not  shirk  ;  but  I  fancy  that  there  is  to  be  seen  a  trace 
of  satisfaction  in  the  free  bird's  movements  when  all 
the  humdrum  details  of  domesticity  are  at  an  end. 
The  kingbird  has  a  fancy  for  the  open  fields,  and 
does  not  forget  them  when  confined  to  a  tree  at 
nesting-time.  It  likes  the  broad  outlook  and  the 
easy  life  it  may  then  lead,  whether  chasing  beetles  in 
the  sunshine  or  swinging  on  a  bending  mullein  stalk. 
I  associate  it,  in  the  early  autumn,  with  fragrant 
balm  and  boneset,  catnip,  pennyroyal,  and  all  the 
cherished  herbs  that  hung  all  winter  from  the  old 
kitchen  ceiling. 

At  this  time,  too,  the  kingbird  is  the  apparent 
leader  of  a  host  of  young  birds  that  have  yet  to 
make  their  way  in  the  world.  It  keeps  to  the 
stakes,  while  the  mixed  company  of  younglings  line 
along  the  crooked  rails  as  if  awaiting  orders.  Orioles, 
bluebirds,  warblers,  tanagers,  and  many  sparrows 
often  rise  from  the  fields  or  fences  surprisingly  like 
a  well-organized  flock,  and  the  kingbirds  are  the 
apparent  leaders.  There  is  no  quarrelling,  but  evi- 
dence of  a  quiet  content  prevailing  everywhere. 
These  mixed  gatherings,  the  outpourings  of  the  sum- 
mer's nesting,  are  to  me  the  earliest  evidences  of  the 
young  birds  leaving  their  nests.  We  see  them 
leave,  and  soon  they  are  largely  lost  sight  of ;  but 
in  September  they  reassemble,  not  kinds  by  them- 
selves, but  associated  as  I  have  described.  In  a  few 
days  they  again  disappear  or  separate,  and  the  perma- 
nently resident  species  take  possession  of  the  land 


H2  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

I  have  said  that  these  gathered  birds  were  always 
contented.  I  forgot  the  occasions  when  young 
sparrow-hawks  came  and  tested  their  skill  at  bird- 
capture.  Why  does  not  the  kingbird  come  to  the 
rescue  then  ?  Doubtless  it  has  the  courage,  but  it  is 
a  question  of  wing-power,  and  the  kingbird  knows 
its  limitations.  This,  however,  I  have  seen  it  do  : 
sound  an  alarm  and  so  put  every  bird  about  it  on 
the  watch,  thus  indirectly  baffling  the  intruder.  It 
would  be  a  most  satisfactory  thing  if  we  better  under- 
stood bird-language  and  the  relationship  that  different 
species  bear  to  each  other.  In  other  words,  what 
does  a  cat-bird  think  of  a  wren,  or  a  kingbird  of 
a  field-sparrow  ?  There  is  constant  association,  and 
it  is  hard  to  believe  that  they  disregard  each  other. 
Do  class  distinctions  exist  among  birds  ?  That  small 
birds  will  band  together  at  a  moment's  notice  against 
a  common  enemy  is  evident  enough  when  a  sleep- 
ing owl  is  discovered,  or  a  stuffed  one  is  placed  in 
a  conspicuous  position  near  a  nest,  as  I  have  often 
done.  Phew  !  what  a  racket  is  kicked  up  !  But  of 
late  no  picture  of  an  owl  has  the  same  effect,  al- 
though I  had  results  years  ago  that  led  me  to  a 
different  conclusion,  and  I  do  not  admit  that 
I  was  wrong  then.  There  is  a  barrier  between 
men  and  birds  that  I  fear  can  never  be  broken 
down.  Much  as  we  know  or  think  we  know,  there 
is  much  more  of  which  we  are  ignorant,  and  recent 
literature  has  given  us  little  reason  to  suppose  that 
we  shall  ever  possess  all  the  information  that  is 
desirable. 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  113 

We  have  many  flycatchers,  some  as  large  as  the 
kingbird  and  -fully  as  prominent ;  for  instance,  the 
great-crested,  which  is  almost  constantly  with  us  and 
has  some  habits  unlike  its  nearest  relations.  It 
builds  its  nest  in  a  hole  in  a  tree  instead  of  on  the 
branches,  and  drowns  the  songs  of  other  birds  by 
its  unending  cacophonous  fretting.  A  bird  of  spirit 
and  of  action,  but  so  tiresome  that  before  the  sum- 
mer is  over  we  vote  it  a  nuisance.  These  birds 
never  miss  building  in  the  old  apple-trees  in  the 
lane,  but  this  year  the  pair  that  reoccupied  last 
year's  nest  could  not  find  a  snake-skin,  which  is 
supposed  to  be  a  sine  qua  non  with  them.  I  was 
sorry,  for  it  argued  a  scarcity  of  snakes  and  there- 
fore another  step  towards  denaturalizing  the  coun- 
try round  about.  They  did  have  a  bit  of  narrow 
ribbon,  and  I  wondered  if  they  took  this  as  a  sub- 
stitute. 

The  olive-sided  flycatcher  merely  passes  through 
New  Jersey  on  its  way  north,  and  again,  in  autumn, 
going  southward  ;  but  in  Northern  New  England  it 
is  very  conspicuous.  Thoreau  makes  frequent  refer- 
ence to  it,  and  calls  it,  because  of  the  noise  it  makes, 
pe-pe.  Mr.  Cram  informs  me  that  in  his  neighbor- 
hood the  kingbird  and  the  great-crested  are  very  like 
in  habits.  Certainly,  he  says,  they  are  equally  quar- 
relsome and  fearless,  and  adds,  "I  always  associate 
them  with  hot  weather  and  pine  clearings  and  that 
peculiar  aromatic  odor  of  drying  white  pine  tops 
unlike  anything  else.  These  birds  spend  much  of 
their  time  perched  on  the  tops  of  dead  trees,  and 

h  10* 


114 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


of  course  launch  out  into  the  air  after  insects  like 
all  their  tribe." 

Rare  flycatchers  are  sometimes  seen,  and  I  have 
found  the  yellow-bellied  twice,  once  breeding ;  the 
birds  were  identified  by  the  late  Mr.  Cassin.  I  also 

shot  a  fine  scissor-tail  some 
years  ago.  Such  occur- 
rences, however,  are  really 
of  little  interest,  except  that 
they  sometimes  show  that 
a  given  locality  has  a  more 
considerable  avi-fauna  than 
the  bird-men  allow  it, — a 
condition  probably  true  of 
the  whole  country. 

All  the  above  birds  are 
flycatchers  by  nature  as 
well  as  by  name,  and  have 
earned  the  title,  but  there 
is  not  one  of  them  that  in  a 
given  time  catches  as  many 
flies  as  some  other  birds 
that  can  be  named.  Be- 
cause of  a  pugnacious  tendency  that  is  always  pretty 
well  marked  they  are  also  called  "tyrants,"  though  it 
is  questionable  if  they  are  more  deserving  of  the  title 
than  certain  other  birds.  However,  this  discussing 
the  ill  tempers  of  birds  is  not  pleasant.  And  now 
what  of  more  amiable  catchers  of  flies,  amateurs  in 
that  line,  if  we  insist  that  the  tyrannical  kingbird  and 
its  cousins  are  professionals  ?  As  regards  their  skill, 


Olive-sided  Flycatcher. 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  115 

I  have  amused  myself  by  bringing  deadly  statistics 
to  bear  upon  the  question,  yet  not  one  of  them  but 
frequently  misses  its  aim.  This  you  can  positively 
determine  by  close  observation.  It  is  easy  enough 
to  take  a  position,  with  the  sun  at  your  back,  and 
watch  a  common  pewee,  a  kingbird,  a  least  flycatcher, 
or  any  one  of  the  family.  There  is  little  chance  of 
being  mistaken,  and  the  success  or  failure  of  the 
bird's  efforts  can  be  easily  interpreted  by  its  actions. 
When  unsuccessful,  it  gathers  itself  in  mid-air  and 
makes  a  second  effort.  The  insect  has  had  warning, 
however,  and  darts  and  twists  in  a  way  that  effectually 
baffles  his  birdship.  We  are  so  accustomed  to  look 
at  these  tyrant  flycatchers  in  a  half-interested  way, 
and  to  take  it  for  granted  that  all  goes  on  like  clock- 
work, that  we  are  often  greatly  deceived.  Not  one 
of  them  is  as  skilful  as  it  is  reputed  to  be.  They 
have  to  earn  their  living,  literally,  and  the  strain 
upon  them  must  be  enormous.  Insects,  it  should 
be  remembered,  do  not  remain  motionless  in  the 
air  waiting  to  be  devoured.  Their  flight  is  more 
marvellous  than  that  of  any  bird,  and  here,  as  in  all 
phases  of  life,  there  are  grades  of  excellence,  some 
being  more  easily  caught  than  others  ;  but  when 
it  comes  to  lively  tiger-beetles  and  insects  that  are 
like  lightning  in  their  movements,  it  is  more  by 
good  luck  than  by  good  management  that  a  kingbird 
or  a  pewee  gets  enough  to  eat.  On  more  than  one 
occasion  I  have  seen  a  flycatcher  give  up  in  despair 
and  take  a  new  position  where  the  passing  insects 
were  not  in  such  a  hurry.  Nor  need  a  pewee's  food 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


be  always  on  the  wing.  They  will  rob  a  spider's 
web  or  pick  a  fly  from  a  window-pane  ;  but  in  the 
latter  case  the  concussion  when  the  beak  and  glass 
come  together  must  be  staggering,  and  the  act  is 
not  likely  to  be  repeated.  Do  not  set  down  the 
tyrant  flycatchers  as  perfect  in  their  art.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  perfection  in  nature. 

There  are  half  a  dozen  species  of  vireos,  four  of 
which  are  found  all  summer  in  New  Jersey,  the  others 

merely  passing 
through  on 
their  way  to 
more  north- 
ern localities. 
These  birds  are 
insect-eaters, 
and  therefore 
catchers  of 
flies,  and  I  am 
quite  disposed 
to  award  to 
them  very  de- 
cided skill  in  the  art.  Not  often  do  they  launch 
out  in  pursuit  of  passing  insects,  though  I  have 
sometimes  seen  this  done,  particularly  in  wood- 
land. Insects  are  sure  to  congregate  where  there 
is  a  wagon-road  passing  through  the  forest,  and  I 
have  seen  vireos  dart  out  into  this  open  space  and 
return  as  any  flycatcher  would  and  for  the  same 
purpose.  When  not  singing,  vireos  are  eating,  and 
it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that  their  food  lies  quietly 


Philadelphia  Vireo. 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  117 

on  leaves  and  twigs  ready  for  the  devourer.  But 
little  is  obtained  in  this  way,  for  to  surprise  and  cap- 
ture an  insect  before  it  can  move  is  much  more 
difficult  than  to  fly  after  and  overtake  it.  There  are 
vireos  in  my  yard  every  summer.  Their  nests  are  in 
the  three  beeches  and  elsewhere  along  the  hill-side, 
and  the  white-eyes  are  always  down  in  the  meadows. 
These  birds  are  very  abundant,  and  it  is  no  task  to 
watch  them  closely.  Their  methods  are  different, 
but  require  equal  alertness,  and  their  skill  is  not  to 
be  underrated.  They  are  past  masters  in  the  art  of 
catching  flies,  and  therefore  a  blessing  to  the  horti- 
culturist ;  for  their  activity  is  unceasing  and,  like  all 
insectivorous  birds,  they  are  always  hungry.  Vireos, 
however,  are  more  interesting  as  winged  musicians 
than  as  "  feathered  appetites,"  yet  we  are  never 
much  impressed  by  the  performances  of  these  birds. 
The  red-eye's  is  a  languid  song,  and  when  kept  up 
for  hours  during  the  heat  of  a  summer  day,  while  the 
bird  may  be  trying,  as  Thoreau  suggests,  to  lift  our 
thoughts  above  the  dusty  street,  we  are  sometimes 
moved  to  wish  that  it  would  lift  itself  and  give  us 
silence.  The  white-eye's  song  is  too  energetic  and 
"screechy"  to  be  musical ;  still,  when  we  hear  it  ring- 
ing along  the  wooded  slopes  and  across  the  pastures, 
it  has  a  thrilling  influence.  It  is  evidence  that  others 
are  up  and  doing  if  we  are  not. 

Vireos  are  arboreal,  and  yet  we  can  always  see 
them.  They  do  not  intentionally  hide  in  the  tree- 
tops,  nor  are  they  afraid  of  man.  There  is  a  sickly, 
worm-eaten  linden  near  my  kitchen  door,  and  there 


n8  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

all  summer  long  the  red-eyed  and  yellow-throated 
vireos  have  a  happy  time.  They  sing  somewhat 
alike  and  yet  differently,  the  advantage  being  with 
the  yellow-throat  These  birds  undertook  to  relieve 
the  sickly  linden  of  its  insect  pests,  but  the  task  was 
more  than  they  could  accomplish.  There  was  no 
quarrelling,  and  I  often  thought  that  they  stopped  a 
moment,  in  passing,  to  say  a  word  or  two.  It  looked 
so,  at  any  rate.  Then  they  would  separate,  the  red- 
eye flying  to  some  new  twig,  and  saying,  according 
to  Flagg,  "Do  you  hear  me?  Do  you  believe  it?" 
And  the  yellow-throat — away  up  in  the  tree-top  by 
this  time — would  call  back,  " Doubt  it?  'deed  1 do /" 
And  so  the  pointless  discussion  continued  from  some 
time  in  May  until  the  cool  days  of  September.  I 
was  in  hopes  that  the  tree  would  recover  after  such 
constant  attention,  but  the  twigs  that  drop  with  every 
winter  wind  leave  me  in  doubt  as  well  as  the  vireos, 
if  that  was  the  subject  of  their  conversations. 

What  pretty  nests  they  build  !  I  have  one  that 
has  been  strengthened  by  passing  a  thread  to  a  twig 
above  those  to  which  the  rim  of  the  nest  is  attached, 
thus  affording  additional  security.  The  weaving  in 
of  this  long  thread  and  its  overlapping  and  twisting 
are  positively  marvellous. 

But  the  typical  flycatchers — birds  as  much  or  even 
more  in  the  air  than  any  insect — are  the  swallows. 
In  some  respects  they  are  the  best  expressions  of 
nature's  idea  of  a  bird,  and  probably  more  nearly 
reach  the  theoretical  point  of  perfection  than  any 
other  living  creature.  Mechanically  considered,  they 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  119 

are  infinitely  superior  to  man.  We  are  supposed  to 
admire  skilfully  adapted  means  to  ends,  and  from  this 
stand-point  the  swallow  may  be  compared  to  a  most 
delicate  chronometer  and  man  to  a  steam-engine. 
So  prominent  are  these  birds  in  every  landscape,  so 
fearless  and  inoffensive,  that,  as  all  birds  should  have 
done,  they  have  really  gained  an  entrance  into  man's 
affections,  and  I  think  no  bird  figures  to  more  ad- 
vantage in  our  literature.  Notwithstanding  this,  I 
have  seen  a  woman — or  what  I  took  to  be  one — 
walking  unconcernedly  on  a  fashionable  street,  in 
broad  daylight,  with  the  skin  of  a  swallow  on  her  hat ! 
Of  course  I  could  say  nothing  to  her,  but  I  swore  at 
her  shadow  as  she  passed.  To  make  impossible  such 
a  thing  as  the  wearing  of  bird-skins  is  a  task  that 
statesmen  might  take  up  without  any  reflection  on 
the  dignity  of  their  calling.  There  is  a  Department 
of  Agriculture  and  departmental  ornithologists,  to- 
gether with  feeble  protests  and  pretty  pictures,  much 
wisdom  and  more  fruitless  discussion  ;  all  this  in  the 
capital  of  the  nation,  while  throughout  the  length 
and  breadth  of  the  land  bird-murder  goes  on  un- 
ceasingly. I  have  heard  of  a  clergyman  who  shot 
nuthatches  for  his  dinner.  From  the  sermons  of 
such  men  pray  to  be  delivered. 

We  not  only  have  plenty  of  swallows,  but  they 
are  of  different  kinds,  so  that  the  characteristics  of 
each  species  are  ever  before  us.  We  draw  an  in- 
vidious distinction  when  we  say  that  the  bank-swallow 
is  prettier  than  the  cliff-swallow,  or  that  the  white- 
belly  is  more  trim  than  the  marten,  or  otherwise  set 


120 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


one  above  another.  They  are  all  as  pretty  as 
pictures,  and  those  that  are  not  brilliant  in  color 
possess  unequalled  grace,  for  a  swallow  in  the  air 
is  the  truest  poetry  of  motion  ;  it  is  as  if  it  and 
the  air  were  one.  You  cannot  take  the  bird  from 
the  sky  without  dimming  all  its  lustre.  It  is  not 
strange  that  the  Delaware  Indians  called  these  birds 
" feathered  spirits;"  and  yet  they  are,  when  we  come 

down  to  the 
solid  basis  of 
fact,  merely  fly- 
catchers, or,  in 
ornithological 
parlance,  catch- 
ers of  flies ;  but 
there  is  nothing 
of  the  amateur 
r  about  them  in 
this  respect. 
They  shame 
every  kingbird 
that  ever  launched  into  the  sunlight  of  a  summer  day 
and  snapped  its  beak  at  a  bee. 

In  all  matters,  whether  trivial  or  important,  we  are 
creatures  of  preferences.  We  fancy  one  thing  better 
than  another,  though  assured  that  both  are  of  equal 
value.  We  always  pick  a  sweeter  bonbon  from  the 
dish  than  any  we  leave  for  our  neighbors.  It  is  the 
natural  result  of  the  imperfections  of  human  nature. 
I  will  not  pretend  to  say  why,  but  my  favorites 
among  these  birds  are  the  white-bellied  and  the 


White-bellied  Swallow. 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR. 


121 


barn-swallow.  I  love  the  former  because  I  find  it 
in  the  flooded  meadows,  skimming  over  the  wide 
pastures  that  are  often  under  water  and  over  which 
my  boat  passes.  I  love  it  because  it  is  so  tame, 
and  twitters  in  my  ear,  when  I  near  its  nesting- 
tree,  "Isrit  this  jolly?"  A  far-fetched  descrip- 
tion of  its  gleesome  ditty,  perhaps,  but  then  it  is 
always  the  manner  rather  than  the  matter  of  a  bird's 
song  that  appeals  to  us.  A  white-bellied  swallow 


Barn-swallow. 

once  alighted  on  the  end  of  my  oar,  which  I  was 
using  as  a  pole.  Such  a  trivial  incident  may  make 
no  impression  on  some,  which  only  proves  that  they 
are  unimaginative  and  much  to  be  pitied.  I  have 
always  looked  forward  to  the  spring  freshet  and  the 
white-bellied  swallows,  and,  now  that  I  have  found 
where  they  nest  and  that  many  stay  in  the  marshes 
all  summer,  they  have  become  of  even  greater  in- 
terest. Formerly  they  seemed  to  disappear  soon 

F  II 


122  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

after  arrival,  except  those  that  associated  with  the 
sand-martens  and  appeared  to  have  nests  in  the 
bank,  but  did  not  It  is  difficult  to  make  plain  what 
a  charm  there  is  in  floating  over  flooded  meadows, 
in  riding  where  you  have  been  accustomed  to  walk, 
and  in  moving  without  let  or  hindrance  among 
quicksands  and  marshes  which  ordinarily  you  can- 
not even  approach.  Then  it  is,  when  the  winter's 
snows  on  the  mountains  have  been  transferred  as 
water  to  the  plain,  that  I  first  meet  the  white-bellied 
swallows,  and  they  seem  ever  as  glad  to  see  me  as 
I  am  to  be  with  them  again.  Call  this  a  childish 
fancy,  if  you  will,  but  it  is  the  secret  of  the  charm 
of  many  a  spring  outing ;  and,  after  all,  if  I  am 
pleased,  what  matters  it  whether  you  are  or  not. 
Some  of  us,  as  we  grow  older,  become  more  selfish  ; 
nor  is  this  strange. 

The  colors  of  the  white-bellied  swallow  are  but  two, 
dark  steel-blue  and  white,  but  the  purity  of  the  latter 
and  the  brilliant  gloss  of  the  former  make  the  bird 
pretty ;  and  when,  with  these,  we  consider  its  trim 
figure  and  marvellous  grace  of  motion,  there  seems 
no  room  for  improvement ;  yet  the  barn-swallow  is  an 
even  more  attractive  bird.  Of  equal  grace  and  pos- 
sessing every  hirundine  merit,  this  species  has  in  addi- 
tion a  blending  of  several  rich  colors  and  a  general 
metallic  lustre  that  bring  it  close  to  those  marvels  of 
the  American  tropics,  the  humming-birds.  The  white- 
bellied  swallow  loves  the  wilder  waste-lands,  where  it 
is  usually  found  ;  but  the  barn-swallow,  as  its  name 
indicates,  comes  to  us,  at  least  to  those  who  live  in  the 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  123 

country.  How  vividly  I  can  recall  delightfully  lazy 
days  when  I  have  clambered  into  the  mow  and,  rest- 
ing at  full  length  on  the  hay,  looked  upward  and 
marked  the  flight  of  the  barn-swallows  that  came 
and  went  through  some  knot-holes  in  the  wall !  The 
bright,  brassy  sunshine  out  of  doors  entered  here 
only  as  great  bars  of  light  and  did  not  dispel  the 
gloom  that  was  the  charm  of  the  place.  I  could 
see  nothing  very  distinctly,  and  the  nests  against 
the  rafters  had  long  since  been  abandoned,  but  the 
birds  still  came  and  went  and  twittered  as  lively  in 
the  shades  of  the  mow  as  in  the  glare  of  the  fields. 
Gay  messengers  from  the  outside  world,  they  brought 
me  only  such  tidings  as  I  wished  ;  they  humored 
my  whims  and  so  endeared  themselves.  It  is  not 
strange  that  I  still  go  into  barns  to  look  for  the 
nests  of  these  charming  birds,  and,  seeing  them, 
even  if  it  be  winter,  I  hear  again  the  merry  twit- 
ter, I  recall  the  pleasant  tidings  brought  me  years 
ago, — the  fancies  never  realized, — and  I  feel  the 
warmth  of  June,  though  standing  in  the  sunshine 
of  January.  Birds,  like  bird-songs,  should  be  valued 
for  their  suggestiveness  rather  than  for  any  intrinsic 
merit. 

While  wasting  time  one  pleasant  May  morning 
with  men  who  dabble  in  archaeology,  and  looking 
for  traces  of  Indians  that,  when  found,  could  not 
possibly  tell  us  anything  new  about  these  people,  I 
was  startled  by  a  whir  and  flapping  of  wings  that 
seemed  directed  towards  me.  I  looked  around  in  a 
dazed  way,  but  could  see  nothing,  and  then  again 


124 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


came  the  whir  and  shadow  of  wings  in  my  face.  It 
was  a  night-hawk,  and  I  had  either  stepped  upon  or 
was  very  near  the  bird's  eggs.  I  stood  perfectly  still 
and  examined  every  square  inch  of  ground  near  me, 
hoping  to  prove  the  excellence  of  my  eyesight  by 
discovering  the  eggs.  The  archaeologists  approached, 
attracted  by  my  statue-like  pose,  but  I  motioned  to 
them  to  keep  away.  They  could  not  see  the  night- 
hawk,  and  concluded  that  I  was  crazy,  but  I  kept 


Night-hawk. 

them  off  until  I  gave  up  searching  for  the  eggs.  "  In 
a  fit?"  called  one  of  them.  All  this  time  the  night- 
hawk  was  almost  striking  me  in  the  face,  and  yet 
neither  of  them  saw  the  bird.  Sharp-sighted  men, 
observing  men,  who  complain  that  they  cannot  find 
stone  axes  in  a  gravel  bed.  Later  I  searched  the 
ground — a  stony  field — with  the  greatest  care,  and 
at  last  succeeded.  What  puzzles  me  now  is  how  the 


PROFESSIONAL  AND  AMATEUR.  125 

bird  ever  found  her  nest  after  once  leaving  it.  What 
eyesight  a  night-hawk  must  have  to  distinguish  its 
eggs,  in  this  case  as  a  single  pebble  among  ten  thou- 
sand !  To  my  eyes  there  was  nothing  approaching  a 
landmark  near  the  spot  that,  by  reason  of  the  eggs' 
presence,  might  be  called  a  nest. 

Unlike  the  whippoorwill,  I  do  not  associate  night- 
hawks  with  spring  or  even  early  summer,  at  which 
times  they  have  never  been  prominent  features  of  the 
landscape  ;  but  during  August,  and  from  that  month 
until  frosty  weather,  they  are  the  birds  of  the  gloam- 
ing, and  the  sunset  sky,  be  it  never  so  brilliant,  would 
lose  a  charm  were  not  these  strange  birds  forever 
darting  to  and  fro.  Their  flight  is  swallow-like, 
and,  if  not  quite  as  graceful,  has  sufficient  charm  to 
keep  us  on  the  watch  and  ever  wondering  by  what 
subtle  power  they  can  dart  and  twist  and  dive,  catch- 
ing insects  all  the  while,  and  yet  find  time  to  sing  after 
a  fashion.  I  say,  "sing,"  because  the  note  is  not 
harsh  and  is  too  frequently  repeated  to  be  classed  as 
a  mere  impatient  ejaculation,  which  was  at  one  time 
my  impression  ;  but  during  the  summer  of  1895  the 
birds  were  unusually  abundant,  and  I  often  took  my 
stand  on  the  highest  point  of  a  rolling  field,  where, 
remaining  quiet,  the  night-hawks  came  near.  While 
the  glow  of  the  setting  sun  was  yet  across  the  land- 
scape the  birds  remained  high  in  the  air,  and  it  was 
not  until  the  vesper-sparrows  had  ceased  singing  that 
the  night-hawks  came  nearer  to  the  earth.  There 
seemed  reason  for  this.  There  was  a  warm  stratum 
of  air  on  the  level  at  which  I  stood,  and  into  this 


126  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

the  insects  rose  from  the  damp  depressions  near  by. 
This  I  could  see  ;  and  now  to  meet  them  came  the 
night-hawks.  To  stand  like  a  statue  and  heroi- 
cally ignore  the  mosquitoes  was  very  tiresome  ;  but 
I  was  repaid.  I  saw  more  clearly  and  heard  more 
distinctly  these  strange  birds  of  the  gloaming  and  of 
the  night,  for  when  the  darkness  deepened  and  every 
object  became  indistinct,  the  whir  of  their  wings  and 
their  happy  expressions  of  content  still  trembled  in 
the  air. 

That  the  night-hawk  seldom  misses  its  aim,  that  it 
is  an  expert  in  its  line  of  insect-capturer,  will  not  be 
denied.  In  this  respect  I  rank  it  next  to  the  swallow 
and  superior  to  the  pewee. 

After  all,  in  this  matter  of  catching  flies,  is  it  not 
the  truth  that  the  "professionals" — the  tyrant  fly- 
catchers— are  the  "amateurs,"  and  not  far  advanced 
at  that ;  while  the  "  amateurs,"  if  judged  by  their 
measure  of  success,  are  the  real  "  professionals"  ? 


CHAPTER   V. 

OUR    OLD-GARDEN    BIRDS. 

ON  the  outskirts  of  an  old  village  stands  a  quaint 
cottage,  built  early  in  the  last  century,  and  as 
yet  unmarred  by  any  modern  improvements.  Most 
appropriately,  it  is  occupied  by  old  people.  A 
weather-beaten  board  at  the  little  gate  has  painted 
upon  it  "Cakes  and  Beer,"  and  there  is  not  a 
youngster  in  the  neighborhood,  nor  an  adult  either, 
but  will  testify  to  the  excellence  of  the  foaming 
beverage  and  spicy  gingerbread  that  are  ever  ready 
for  the  hungry  and  thirsty  wayfarer.  For  many  and 
many  a  year  there  has  been  a  constant  dropping  of 
pennies  upon  the  little  counter  or  into  the  wrinkled 
palm  of  Aunt  Peggy,  whose  "  Thank  thee"  is  veri- 
table music  to  him  who  recalls  it  as  the  same  voice 
that  sounded  so  sweetly  in  the  long-gone,  unappre- 
ciated days  of  early  childhood. 

In  the  course  of  a  recent  ramble  I  passed  by  that 
quaint  cottage  for,  perhaps,  the  thousandth  time,  and, 
the  back  door  being  open,  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
old  garden,  which  I  had  not  visited  for  almost  half 

127 


128  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

a  century.  It  was  just  the  same  now  as  then,  save 
the  added  growth  to  the  hedge,  lilacs,  willow-,  and 
gaunt,  wrinkled  quince-  and  pear-trees.  A  narrow 
path,  margined  by  box,  led  to  the  open  well,  with 
thick  mats  of  moss  about  the  stepping-stones  that 
faced  the  curb  ;  and  where  the  few  vegetables  had 
not  been  planted  there  was  a  wealth  of  flowers  in 
full  blow,  in  bud,  and,  though  so  near  the  end  of 
summer, — it  was  August  now, — with  a  promise  of 
abundant  blossoms  yet  to  appear. 

A  crooked  cedar  post  by  the  well  was  not  the  least 
attractive  feature.  A  coral  honeysuckle  and  a 
trumpet  creeper  struggled  for  supremacy,  and  both 
were  well  laden  with  bright  flowers.  How  the 
humming-birds  buzzed  about  them  ! — not  fighting, 
but  forever  threatening,  I  thought ;  and  the  bees, 
butterflies,  dragon-flies,  and  beetles, — what  goodly 
store  of  sweets  they  all  found  !  and  not  for  an  instant 
was  there  positive  silence.  Their  humming  was 
incessant  and  made  excellent  bass  when  the  treble 
of  joyous  birds  sounded  from  overhead  or  struggled 
through  the  foliage  of  the  thick-set  shrubbery.  The 
oriole's  whistle  was  the  first  clearly  distinct  sound 
that  I  heard,  and  the  nest  that  had  been  in  use 
three  months  before  was  almost  within  reach.  The 
bird  itself  was  merely  revisiting  old  scenes,  and  I 
was  not  surprised  to  hear  from  Aunt  Peggy  that  at 
nesting-time  they  are  too  noisy  for  comfort.  "  These 
hang-nests  never  fail  to  come,  and  always  build  in 
that  weepin'  willow.  I  don't  know  a  season  when 
they  missed,"  said  Aunt  Peggy.  But  I  have  not 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  131 

observed  such  regularity.  In  my  own  yard,  in  the 
summers  from  1874  to  1895,  these  birds  have  been 
absent  but  four  times,  and  during  the  twenty-one 
years  have  nearly  equally  divided  their  attentions,  as 
regards  nest-building,  between  a  sycamore  and  an 
elm.  The  rule  has  been  to  alternate,  and  it  has  been 
pretty  closely  adhered  to.  The  beauty  and  intelli- 
gence of  orioles  are  to  be  commended,  but  there 
is  too  much  edge  to  their  whistle  :  it  cuts  the  ear 
instead  of  falling  gently  upon  it.  If  indulging  in 
a  day-dream,  we  are  startled,  not  merely  roused, 
by  its  suddenness  and  shrillness.  The  orioles  that 
stay  with  us  after  nesting-time  are  never  musical. 

The  day  is  not  far  distant  when  Aunt  Peggy  and 
her  husband  will  pass  away,  and  the  old  garden,  so 
long  a  landmark,  will  be  of  interest  only  as  regards 
local  history.  Place  and  people,  the  old  cottage  and 
its  occupants,  are  so  well  fitted  to  each  other  that  we 
cannot  dissociate  them  ;  but  young  people  would  be 
out  of  place  here.  A  new  roof  must  cover  young 
heads,  it  seems.  The  old  is  forever  giving  way,  but 
is  it  always  to  better  as  well  as  newer  things  ?  New 
flowers,  at  least,  are  not  in  every  case  an  improve- 
ment upon  the  old.  What  has  the  present  to  show 
that  is  an  advance  over  an  old  apple-tree  and  the 
bluebirds  ?  Certainly  not  a  japonica  hedge  and  the 
English  sparrows. 

The  blessed  bluebirds  !  Why  are  they  so  seldom 
seen  where  but  a  few  years  ago  they  were  abundant  ? 
For  many  years  they  were  literally  resident  in  a  hay- 
barn  near  my  house,  never  leaving  it  longer  than 


132  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

pigeons  do  the  dove-cot ;  but  this  was  an  unusual 
occurrence,  an  exaggeration  of  their  ordinary  habits. 
The  miserable  intrusive  sparrow  is  in  part  to  blame, 
but  our  own  indifference  is  far  more  culpable. 
The  men  who  have  made  efforts  to  keep  down  the 
English  sparrow  and  aid  the  bluebird  are  too  few  in 


Bluebird. 

number,  and  yet  the  task  is  not  onerous,  for  spar- 
rows are  easily  outwitted  and  bluebirds  quick  to 
discover  the  truth.  Time  was  when  the  garden 
had  as  surely  its  boxes  for  wrens  and  bluebirds  as 
its  daffodils,  heart' s-ease,  and  yellow  roses.  The 
presence  of  these  birds  was  a  matter  of  course  ;  not 
a  necessity,  perhaps,  but  so  near  it  that  they  were 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  133 

never  overlooked.  In  all  respects  we  of  the  present 
day  have  not  kept  pace  with  common  sense.  Of 
late,  the  bluebird  is  fast  becoming  a  bird  of  the  back- 
woods ;  one  that  we  hear  when  it  is  passing  from 
forest  to  forest,  high  overhead,  and  ignoring  us.  So 
lately  a  bird  of  the  garden,  even  to  those  who  lived 
in  town,  and  now  banished !  We  deliberately  drove 
them  away,  and  now,  like  fools,  wonder  why  they 
went. 

The  bluebird  is  delightful  everywhere  and  at  all 
times,  but  never  was  it  more  charming  than  when 
it  warbled  on  a  May  morning  in  the  reawakened  old 
gardens,  rejoicing  to  return  to  its  nesting-home,  and 
seeming  to  give  thanks  to  man  for  his  thoughtful- 
ness.  The  old  world  then  seemed  new  again,  and 
may  it  not  have  been  that  old  people,  hearing  the 
sweet  song,  felt  something  like  a  renewal  of  their 
youth  ?  There  would  have  been  nothing  strange  in 
this. 

But  this  is  neither  the  time  nor  the  place  to  be 
sadly  retrospective.  What  of  the  good  gifts  of  the 
passing  moment  ?  What  of  the  flowers  of  the  pass- 
ing summer  ?  What  of  the  birds  ?  I  noticed  to-day 
in  Aunt  Peggy's  old  garden  that  the  English  prim- 
rose had  had  its  day  and  the  poppies  were  past  their 
prime.  The  flaming  phlox  was  no  longer  the  prin- 
cipal feature,  as  it  had  been,  and  the  spiraeas  were 
only  a  thrifty  growth,  in  which  the  song-sparrows  still 
lingered,  although  their  nests  were  empty.  But 
what  a  show  of  dahlias  and  hollyhocks  !  The  sight 
was  a  dazzling  one.  Crimson,  gold,  white,  and  deli- 

12 


134  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

cate  shades  of  pink  and  purple  lined  the  lichen- 
covered  fence,  that  was  almost  concealed  by  the  stout 
stalks  of  these  showy  plants.  And  how  natural  was 
the  remark  of  Aunt  Peggy,  "They  ain't  as  pretty  as 
last  summer ;  somehow  the  season  wasn't  quite  right"  ! 
Did  the  man  or  woman  ever  live  who  was  quite  con- 
tented with  what  is  ?  How  flowers  could  be  brighter 
I  cannot  imagine  ;  and  how  the  trim  gardens  of  these 
later  days  pale  in  comparison  ! 

It  should  be  remembered,  too,  that  many  of  our 
native  wild  flowers  can  be  transplanted  without  in- 
jury, and  will  flourish  even  better  in  gardens  than  in 
fields  or  meadows,  where  the  struggle  for  existence 
is  always  fierce.  Our  native  plants,  like  our  native 
birds,  are  not  sufficiently  well  known.  In  this  matter 
our  grandfathers  were  wiser  than  we.  They  had  a 
loving  regard  for  many  a  wild  growth  and  garden 
flower  almost  unknown  to  us.  The  birds,  too,  ob- 
served less  distinction  between  town  and  country. 
The  mere  fact  that  houses  occur  here  and  there  does 
not  frighten  a  bird,  if  about  these  houses  are  the 
trees  and  bushes  it  loves.  As  I  stood  looking  with 
admiration  at  the  display  in  this  unpretending  spot, 
I  heard  a  loud  lisping,  and,  turning  my  head,  I  saw 
a  dozen  cedar-birds  in  the  cherry-tree.  "I  thought 
they  would  take  'em  all,"  said  Aunt  Peggy,  "when 
they  came  about  June,  but  they  left  me  plenty," 
and  the  old  woman  smiled  as  she  thought  of  the 
pleasant  ending  to  her  fears. 

"This  they  always  do,  in  spite  of  what  Farmer 
Greedy  says,"  I  replied  ;  but  here  the  conversation 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS. 


135 


was  interrupted.  The  arrival  of  a  customer  caused 
me  to  be  left  alone  for  a  short  time,  and,  sitting  by 
the  well,  I  quickly  drifted  into  dreams  of  other  days. 
Have  we  been  wise,  I  mused,  in  discarding  so  much 
that  characterized  old  times,  even  in  such  a  matter 
as  garden  flowers  ?  for  admitting  the  greater  charms 


of  importations,  they  do  not  seem  to  attract  the 
birds.  My  eyes  fell  upon  the  showy  cone-flower 
that  had  been  brought  from  the  near-by  meadows, 
and  in  one  corner  of  the  garden  there  was  a  thrifty 
centaury,  now  a  mass  of  bright  pink-purple  bloom. 
Why  this  latter  flower  is  so  generally  overlooked  is 


136 


BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 


a  mystery  to  me.     Few  exotics  with  similarly  colored 
blossoms  can  compare  with  it. 

From  the  wavy  willow  branches  almost  overhead 
there  trickled  down  a  broken  roll  of  gutturals,  and 
I  looked  for  the  cuckoo  that  I  knew  had  uttered 
them.  What  a  strange  bird  this  is  !  It  seems  to 
fly  only  when  passing  from  tree  to  tree  ;  it  glides 
through  the  branches.  It  will — it  does — pass  near 


Cuckoo. 

you,  time  and  again,  all  summer  long,  without  your 
suspecting  its  presence.  I  have  been  assured  that 
its  cry  was  the  complaining  of  a  tree-toad.  Kek- 
kek-o,  kek-kek-o,  ko,  ko,  ko  ;  there  is  the  sound  again, 
and  I  see  the  bird  gliding  from  limb  to  limb  of  the 
willow  without  causing  the  slenderest  twigs  to  tremble. 
It  gives  me  the  impression  of  an  unhappy  spirit, 
doomed  to  wander  and  worry  throughout  all  time ; 
and  I  was  not  surprised  when  I  read  that  the  Rus- 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  137 

sian  cuckoo  is  said  by  the  peasants  of  that  country 
to  be  the  soul  of  an  unbaptized  infant.  The  peasants 
hold  out  some  hope  for  it,  but  our  cuckoo  is  too  un- 
canny a  bird  for  us  to  believe  that  it  will  ever  return 
to  happier  conditions. 

"  I  have  flowers  from  April  to  the  end  of  fall,"  said 
Aunt  Peggy,  when 
she  returned, "  and 
I   don't   have  no 
favorites ;   they're 
all  good  enough  for  me  ; 
but  what  I   like   best,  if 
there    is    any   choice,    is 
them  I  remember  the  longest 
I'm  just  young  again  when  the 
yellow  rose  comes  out  in  May." 
As  she  spoke,  a  little   house- 
wren  filled  the  garden  with  melody, 
and  I  fancied  that  auntie  thought  of 
the  days  when  she  was  young,  she  had 
such  a  far-off  look  while  the   bird  was 
singing. 

"  Shop!"  rang  out  on  the  perfume-laden 

j    A       ^_  T»  T  House-wren. 

air,  and  Aunt  Peggy  was  gone.  It  was  a 
hot  August  day  and  everybody  was  thirsty,  so  I  was 
again  alone.  Looking  about  me,  I  saw  the  shadow 
of  the  cuckoo  fall  across  the  path,  and  marking  the 
direction  taken  by  the  bird,  my  eyes  fell  on  a  wren's 
mossy  mansion  near  the  kitchen  door.  The  cuckoo 
was  forgotten.  Above  the  wren's  home  on  the  low 
eaves  was  a  box  of  house-leek  that  drooped  grace- 

12* 


138  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

fully  and  shaded  the  little  minstrel's  home.      It  was  a 
pretty  sight. 

The  wrens  are  pugnacious,  and  at  times  have  hard 
struggles  because  of  the  sparrows'  numbers,  but  they 
have  not  fared  so  ill  as  the  bluebirds.  They  still  re- 
main with  me  from  April  until  frost,  housed  in  boxes 
that  no  sparrow  can  enter,  and  when  the  wren  is  at 
home  they  dare  not  approach.  As  a  domestic  bird 
the  house-wren  is,  or,  more  correctly  speaking,  was, 
a  close  second  to  the  "  chippy,"  and  some  claim 
first  place  for  it.  At  times  it  appears  even  tamer, 
because  it  is  not  afraid  of  cats,  and  will  snap  de- 
fiance in  tabby's  ears  as  she  sleeps  on  the  sunny 
side  of  the  garden  fence  ;  and  it  can  do  what,  pos- 
sibly, the  poor  "chippy"  cannot, — that  is,  sing.  It 
makes  the  whole  door-yard  thrill  when  it  pro- 
nounces its  satisfaction  with  May  mornings.  In  the 
good  old  times  the  wren  made  an  excellent  impres- 
sion ;  people  regarded  it  lovingly  and  built  houses 
for  it,  and  looked  in  spring  for  its  coming  and  saw 
it  depart  with  regret.  All  this  was  outgrown  in 
later  years.  Novelty  became  the  order  of  the  day, 
and,  with  a  grand  flourish  of  trumpets  and  a 
promise  of  endless  benefits,  the  English  sparrow  was 
imported  !  The  birds  of  the  country  were  asked 
to  retire  ;  they  were  not  fashionable  ;  they  suddenly 
became  poor  country  cousins  that  caused  the  city 
folk  to  blush,  and  accordingly  the  parks  and  gar- 
dens were  all  besparrowed.  Music  was  banished 
and  chatter  substituted,  precisely  as  in  many  a  draw- 
ing-room we  see  abundant  silliness  and  little  sense. 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  139 

Poor  house-wren,  how  I  pitied  you  !  but  not  so  much 
now  as  formerly.  I  have  seen  more  of  the  world, 
and  it  is  evident  that  you  have  escaped  a  great 
deal  by  forming  new  associates  in  the  backwoods. 
You  see  a  better  class  of  mankind  than  you  would 
have  done  had  you  remained  where  people  most 
do  congregate.  Now  that  the  mischief  is  done, 
there  are  those  who  regret  the  officious  activity  of 
ignorance  and  curse  the  folly  of  such  an  act  as 
the  introduction  of  these  worthless  sparrows.  It 
were  better  to  annihilate  them  than  to  enforce  the 
Monroe  doctrine  ;  but  alas  !  to  do  the  former  is  now 
impossible. 

There  are  times  when  some  birds  would  be  out 
of  place  :  crows  at  a  funeral,  for  instance  ;  but  give 
me  larks  at  a  wedding.  We  cannot  break  in  upon 
our  established  customs  without  discomfort,  and  to 
hear  in  December  what  belongs  to  June,  although 
it  may  be  in  a  measure  musical,  yet  lacks  the  proper 
sweetness.  A  bird's  song,  like  many  a  summer 
fruit,  is  not  always  in  season ;  and  this  leads  to 
the  question,  When  is  the  familiar  house-wren's 
song  heard  at  its  best?  We  hear  it  for  six  months 
of  each  year,  and  there  is  as  much  animation  in  the 
last  song  as  in  the  first ;  but  to  extract  all  its  charm, 
to  fathom  the  full  meaning  of  every  syllable,  I  prefer 
that  it  break  without  warning  on  the  stillness  of  a 
Sunday  afternoon  in  June.  A  mere  fancy  of  mine, 
this,  and  meaningless,  it  may  be,  to  others  ;  but  it 
was  then  that  all  was  quiet  on  the  farm,  even  to  the 
restless  children  ;  it  was  then  that  the  old  people 


140  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

took  their  mid-day  naps  after  charging  the  young- 
sters to  make  no  noise.  Even  the  old  dog  was 
drowsy  and  scarcely  shook  the  tormenting  flies  from 
his  ears.  It  was  then,  while  I  was  wondering  if 
grandpa  would  ever  wake  up  or  auntie  open  her 
eyes,  that  the  wrens,  as  if  on  mischief  bent,  would 
sometimes  come  close  to  the  open  window — peep 
through  the  blinds,  I  thought — and  send  a  torrent 
of  music  rushing  through  the  room.  Then  grandpa 
would  start,  and  auntie,  rubbing  her  eyes  and  real- 
izing that  the  birds  and  not  the  children  were  at  fault, 
would  give  the  signal  for  a  dash  out  of  doors.  I 
learned  to  love  the  wrens  many  a  year  ago.  Is  it 
any  wonder  that  I  love  them  still  ? 

It  was  time  to  go  ;  I  had  an  engagement  to  meet ; 
but,  before  leaving,  I  turned,  scarce  knowing  why,  to 
the  fields  beyond  the  boundary  of  Aunt  Peggy's 
garden,  and  there,  too,  were  flowers  in  abundance. 
The  climbing  bittersweet  almost  hedged  them  in, 
and  along  the  brook  the  boneset  and  Joe-Pye  weed 
flourished  in  tropical  luxuriance,  but  not  to  the  ex- 
clusion of  other  flowers,  while  slender  lizard's-tail 
and  golden  dodder  contributed  their  brilliance  to  the 
painted  meadow,  and  the  twittering  of  birds  every- 
where added  to  the  charm.  Mere  twittering  of  birds 
of  many  kinds  ;  the  half-expressed  assertion  of  their 
happiness  ;  but  it  gave  complete  assurance  of  their 
near  presence,  which  ever  keeps  the  rambler  in  good 
humor  with  himself. 

How  well  these  wild  flowers  keep  the  record  of  the 
year !  Were  all  almanacs  lost  and  every  clock  de- 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  141 

stroyed,  and  were  clouds  to  obscure  the  sky,  the  time 
of  year  and  the  time  of  day  could  still  be  closely 
reckoned,  except  in  winter,  by  the  coming  and  going 
of  the  flowers. 

Leaving  the  garden  at  last,  I  was  soon  on  the 
well-kept  lawn  of  a  pretentious  house.  Not  a  weed 
had  escaped  the  scythe,  and  the  grass  seemed  like 
a  green  carpet  that  hid  the  earth.  Here,  everything 
gave  evidence  of  man's  presence,  and  there  was  too 
little  of  unrestrained  nature  to  be  pleasing  to  one 
who  loves  fields  and  hedge-rows.  I  could  not  with- 
hold my  admiration  of  many  a  strange  exotic  bloom, 
but  I  was  not  at  ease ;  ever  before  me  was  a  more 
beautiful  picture  of  the  simpler  charms  of  the  quaint 
old  village  garden  wherein  I  had  lovingly  lingered 
but  an  hour  before. 

I  had  occasion  to  visit  this  same  garden  again  in 
January.  Aunt  Peggy  was  sitting  close  to  the  little 
stove  and  complained  of  rheumatism.  She  had 
escaped  until  over  eighty,  but  did  not  take  that  into 
consideration.  I  asked  about  the  garden,  and  she 
looked  at  me  in  blank  surprise,  as  though  she  thought 
that  gardens,  like  summer  birds,  went  away  during 
the  winter.  "  There's  nothin'  to  see  out  o'  doors 
this  time  o'  year,"  was  her  reply. 

Nothing  to  see  !  If  there  ever  was  a  fallacious 
statement  this  is  one,  and  yet  how  very  common  ! 
Nothing  to  see  !  Did  you  ever  look  at  the  seed- 
pods  of  skull-cap  covered  with  feathery  frost,  or  the 
skeletons — do  not  shudder — of  plants  sparkling  with 
dew  ?  Even  the  bleached  bones  of  the  nosegay  you 


142 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


tossed  aside  last  August  are  beautiful  when  encased 
in  crystal  and  reflecting  the  level  rays  of  a  midwinter 
setting  sun.  Is  not  the  earnest  outpouring  of  a 
happy  bird's  song  as  truly  musical,  as  soul-stirring, 
in  January  as  in  June  ?  At  all  events,  this  music  is 
at  our  command,  if  we  wish  to  enjoy  it,  and  I, 
knowing  this,  had  my  doubts  about  the  old  garden 


Red-bellied  Nuthatch. 


White-bellied  Nuthatch. 


being  so  desolate.  I  gave  some  commonplace  reason 
and  went  to  the  back  door.  As  I  supposed,  frost 
had  wrought  no  such  serious  ravage  as  Aunt  Peggy 
would  have  had  me  believe.  The  box  hedges  were 
darkly  green ;  there  was  woodbine  with  frozen  but 
unfaded  leaves,  and,  without  exaggeration,  birds  in 
abundance.  Just  over  the  fence  the  blue-black 
snow-birds  were  seed-hunting  in  an  old  pasture,  and 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  143 

a  shrike  flew  across  the  yard  as  I  opened  the  door, 
taking  the  same  direction  that  the  cuckoo  had  five 
months  before  ;  but,  unlike  that  bird,  it  startled  the 
garden's  occupants, — a  nuthatch,  a  kinglet,  and  a 
winter-wren.  The  garden,  with  its  birds,  was  as 
merry  as  May-day,  and  I  wanted  to  bring  Aunt  Peggy 
out ;  but  I  thought  of  her  rheumatism,  and  also  of 


Shrike. 


the  fact  that  age  loves  to  hug  delusions.  There  was 
excellent  hunting  ground  here  for  every  bird.  The 
trees  met  all  the  needs  of  the  nuthatch,  and  his  curi- 
ous nasal  ejaculation  was  heard  above  the  singing 
of  the  birds  out  of  bounds. 

"  Nuthatches  have  much  the  same  habits  as  wood- 
peckers," writes  Mr.  Cram,  "but  they  are  much 
smaller  birds,  square-tailed,  and  bluish  gray  in  color. 
The  white-breasted  nuthatch  [the  one  I  saw  in  the 
garden]  is  pure  white  underneath,  and  the  top  of 


144  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

the  head  and  neck  are  black.  When  flying,  the 
white  breast  and  white  under  sides  of  the  wings  are 
easily  seen.  .  .  .  They  are  steady,  hard-working 
creatures ;  but  in  early  spring,  as  the  pairing  season 
approaches,  they  get  a  little  unsettled  and  freaky, 
performing  the  most  interesting  and  unusual  evolu- 
tions in  the  air,  darting  out  from  the  trunk  of  some 
tall  tree,  circling  round  like  a  flash,  and  returning  to 
the  same  spot  they  have  just  left,  and  going  through 
other  manoeuvres  hard  to  describe  and  meaningless 
to  human  observers.  And  all  the  time  they  are  ut- 
tering cries  far  more  musical  than  any  one  familiar 
only  with  their  unmusical  voices  would  give  them 
credit  for."  My  nuthatch  of  the  garden  was  quite 
commonplace  to-day,  if  any  native  bird  can  be  so. 
It  was  intent  on  finding  food,  and  gave  no  play  to 
feelings  of  a  less  prosy  character.  Had  I  gone  to 
the  nearest  woods  I  might  have  found  the  red- 
breasted  nuthatch,  which  comes  and  goes  the  winter 
through,  and  has  much  the  same  manners  as  his 
larger  cousin.  Mr.  Cram  says,  "  His  wings  are 
short  and  he  darts  in  the  most  uncertain  manner 
from  tree  to  tree,  more  like  a  beetle  than  a  bird." 
This  peculiarity  I  have  never  noticed. 

There  was  a  kinglet  in  the  gooseberry  bushes, 
and  when  the  shrike  flew  by  I  think  it  gave  a  mouse- 
like squeak  ;  at  any  rate,  it  darted  away,  but  reap- 
peared at  the  other  end  of  the  garden  after  some 
minutes,  as  if  it  knew  of  an  underground  passage 
and  kept  it  open  for  such  emergencies  ;  but  it  is 
such  a  wee  creature  that  it  can  go  where  no  other 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS. 


H5 


bird  dare  venture.  When  looking  for  insects  in  the 
wrinkles  of  the  bark  of  an  old  oak,  it  can  be  seen 
with  difficulty,  and  at  such  times  looks  something  like 
a  little  mouse  until  it  spreads  its  wings  and  twitters 
more  gayly  than  ever  a  mouse  could  squeak.  There 
are  two  species  of  kinglets,  the  golden-  and  the  ruby- 
crowned,  readily  distinguished  by  the  differences 
indicated  in  the  names.  The  golden-crowned  is  a 


Golden-crowned  Kinglet. 

winter  resident ;  the  ruby-crowned  merely  a  passing 
visitor,  though  now  and  then  a  representative  remains 
with  us,  and  during  the  mild  winter  of  1888-89  tney 
were  quite  abundant.  Mr.  Cram  says  that  the  ruby- 
crowned  bird  "has  a  song  like  a  canary,  only  not 
so  loud."  The  golden-crowned  can  sing  well  on 
occasion.  I  have  heard  them  in  June,  in  Northern 
Pennsylvania,  make  the  dark  rhododendron-shaded 
G  k  13 


146  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

ravines  ring  with  their  impulsive  notes.  During  the 
winter  you  may  see  kinglets  daily  for  a  month,  and 
conclude  that  they  are  silent,  literally  voiceless,  birds  ; 
but  it  sometimes  happens,  when  the  sun  warms  some 
sheltered  nook  until  we  think  of  summer,  that  this 
little  bird  will  forget  that  it  is  January,  and,  under 
the  influence  of  a  day-dream,  sing  a  few  notes  of  its 
June-day  gladness. 


Winter- wren. 


Very  much  the  same  may  be  said  of  the  winter- 
wren.  This  "double"  of  the  summer  sojourner 
comes  down  from  its  northern  home  before  the 
other  wren  departs,  and  hence  has  arisen  a  very 
common  impression  that  the  bird  of  the  summer 
does  not  leave  us,  but,  as  an  old  farmer  said  to  me, 
"Jack  Frost  puts  a  stopper  to  his  singing."  I  did 
not  attempt  to  set  the  old  man  right ;  it  would  have 
been  labor  lost ;  but  I  am  not  surprised  at  the  mis- 
take. As  observed  by  me,  the  winter-wren  comes 


OUR  OLD-GARDEN  BIRDS.  147 

about  the  yard  and  generally  occupies  the  summer- 
wren's  haunts,  but  adds  to  them  a  range  along  the 
hill-side,  where,  among  wilted  weeds,  mossy  ground, 
and  tangled  nooks,  it  is  really  more  at  home.  Every 
winter  I  find  them  in  the  old  garden  about  the  fences 
and  the  shrubbery  along  them.  Their  exits  and 
entrances  are  made  with  wonderful  celerity,  and  not 
so  much  as  a  chirp,  for  hours  at  a  time.  I  love  best 
to  see  them  about  the  old  bridge  and  the  bush- 
hidden  brook  that  crosses  the  lane.  They  dart  fear- 
lessly where  other  birds  proceed  with  care ;  they 
come  and  go  like  feathered  sunbeams,  regardless  of 
obstacles,  and  all  too  rarely  pause  a  moment  in  their 
career  to  warble  some  trifle  from  their  matchless 
summer  songs.  Like  the  Carolina  wren,  which  is, 
happily,  a  fixture  here,  this  little  brown  fellow  is 
fond  of  spiders,  and  is  often  found,  particularly  after 
snow-storms,  about  the  stable  and  cow-sheds,  search- 
ing for  them  ;  but  it  must  have  exceedingly  sharp 
eyes,  for  the  coveted  spiders  are  generally  hiber- 
nating, and  why  any  should  show  themselves  when 
there  are  no  insects  flying  is  a  mystery.  Here,  how- 
ever, come  the  wrens,  and  there  is  not  a  nook  or 
a  cranny  that  they  do  not  probe.  Somehow,  some- 
where, these  birds  must  find  sufficient  food,  for  they 
never  droop.  They  are  as  active  in  March  as  in 
October,  and  leave  us,  I  doubt  not,  in  as  good  con- 
dition as  when  they  came. 

Do  the  Carolina  wrens  recognize  in  them  a  sort 
of  poor  relation  that  they  have  reason  to  dislike? 
There  is  generally  a  show  of  quarrelling  when  they 


148  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

meet,  and  after  the  little  brown  bird  has  disappeared, 
the  exulting  tones  of  his  haughty  cousin  sound  very 
much  like,  "  you'  d  better,  you '  d  better,  you'  d  better  /  " 
but  this  bird  sings  in  such  a  curious  way  that  you 
can  make  it  say  anything,  reasonable  or  absurd,  ac- 
cording to  the  range  of  your  imagination.  The  same 
is  partly  true  of  every  bird's  song,  and  as  I  was  bid- 
ding Aunt  Peggy  good-by,  I  heard,  or  thought  I  did, 
though  the  doors  were  shut,  a  crested  tit  saying, 
"  Get  you  gone  !  get  you  gone  /  "  I  took  the  hint,  and 
went 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BY    MILL-POND    AND    MEADOW. 

WATER  that  a  century  ago  rippled  through  a 
ravine  and  at  times  rushed  headlong  down 
the  mossy  slopes,  shouting,  "  Catch  me  if  you  can," 
at  last  found  its  master  in  a  thrifty  Quaker,  who,  in 
accordance  with  his  creed's  cardinal  doctrine,  was 
moved  to  the  betterment  of  his  estate.  He  caught 
the  water,  and  it  has  seldom  defied  its  masters  since 
the  dam  was  built,  serving  its  present  captor  by 
turning  the  great  wheel  of  the  mill.  If  in  so  doing 
that  far-seeing  Friend  drove  chipmunks  and  mice 
from  the  ravine,  he  brought  instead  musk-rats  and 
otters  ;  if  the  chewink  and  the  oven-bird  were  forced 
to  higher  grounds,  he  brought  the  tilting  sand-piper 
and  the  kingfisher  to  replace  them  ;  and  the  tangle 
of  laurel  and  greenbrier  where  warblers  and  vireos 
once  found  congenial  homes  is  now  covered  by 
water  far  above  their  one-time  nesting-sites,  upon 
which  rests  the  dabchick,  or  grebe,  or  duck,  and  when 
the  sleet  and  rain  drive  across  the  pond,  there  some- 
times comes  a  wild,  weird,  loud-laughing  loon. 

13*  149 


150  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

From  the  rambler's  point  of  view,  no  harm  has 
been  done.  The  face  of  nature  was  changed,  but 
not  marred,  for  we  have  many  thickets,  many  ra- 
vines and  fields  and  woodland  tracts,  but  none  too 
much  water ;  and  who  that  loves  a  quiet  country 
stroll  but  holds  dear  the  bushy  shores  of  a  pond, 
its  outlet,  and  the  grassy  reaches  of  the  wide  mead- 
ows ?  Fields  and  forests  are  alike  shut  in,  as  it  were, 
but  the  true  out  of  doors  is  near  water,  which  opens 
up  to  us  a  new  world.  At  this  favored  spot  even 
winter  deals  kindly  with  us,  granting  all  its  gifts  and 
withholding  dreariness.  These  meadows  and  the 
mill-pond  are  always  at  a  wedding  and  never  at  a 
funeral.  It  is  a  place  whereat  we  have  the  heart 
to  laugh,  but  not  to  mourn.  But  I  speak  only  for 
myself.  All  my  life  I  have  heard  the  meadow-lark 
singing  in  dulcet  tones,  "/  see  you — you  can't  see 
me;"  but  my  eyes  were  sharp  enough  to  find  this 
one  perched  away  up  on  an  old  oak  that  overlooked 
miles  of  the  surrounding  country.  The  miller  says 
that  his  meadow-larks  sing  better  than  mine,  and  I 
have  been  sitting  at  an  open  window  of  the  mill  to 
determine  if  that  be  true.  It  may  be.  These  mill- 
pond  larks  have  a  fancy  for  a  tall  hickory  that  rises 
sixty  feet  above  the  water,  and  there  is  nothing  to 
interrupt  their  music  as  it  floats  towards  me.  I  am 
half  persuaded  that  the  miller  is  right.  Is  bird- 
music  sweeter  for  travelling  over  water?  Do  the 
ripples  free  it  of  imperfections  ?  I  should  certainly 
have  envied  the  old  man  his  larks  had  I  none  nearer 
home,  but  there  are  few  weeks  in  the  year  that 


BY  MILL- POND  AND  MEADOW.  151 

they  are  not  among  the  birds  about  us.  Nor  are 
they  weaklings  that  mind  the  weather,  but  to  all 
appearances  are  as  content  when  the  day  is  bitter 
cold  as  when  it  is  steamy  hot, — the  worst  of  all  con- 
ditions of  what  is  called  our  temperate  climate. 
Then,  too,  they  are  never  quite  out  of  tune ;  though 


Meadow-lark. 

to  realize  what  the  larks'  musical  powers  really  are 
we  should  hear  them  in  April.  April  is  a  peculiarly 
exasperating  month.  Too  often  we  retire  at  night 
with  an  abiding  faith  that  is  weakened  by  a  return 
of  winter  in  the  morning ;  but  be  it  even  arctic 
weather,  there  is  a  renewal  of  that  faith  when  the 
meadow-larks  make  the  most  of  the  fitful  sunshine, 


152  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

and  chase  the  shadows  with  their  ringing  appeal  to 
come  out  and  see  the  beginnings  of  spring-tide 
handiwork.  It  is  an  assuring  song,  and  therefore  of 
greater  moment  than  the  sweetest  melody. 

As  regards  the  habits  of  the  meadow-lark,  much 
depends  upon  the  character  of  the  country  and  the 
time  of  year.  The  term  "meadow,"  formerly  so 
appropriate,  has  lost  its  significance,  and  we  are  more 
truly  descriptive  in  calling  it  "field"  lark,  for  the 
lowlands  have  been  largely  abandoned  for  the  up- 
land pastures;  and  in  winter  we  could  say  "tree" 
lark  without  misleading,  for  this  bird  has  always  been 
a  lover  of  the  lone  relics  of  the  old  forests,  particu- 
larly those  that  stand  alone  and  give  opportunity  for 
observing  the  landscape  in  all  directions.  "  Outlook" 
lark  would  also  not  be  a  misnomer,  though  it  must 
not  be  inferred  from  this  that  these  birds  are  not 
much  upon  the  ground,  for  they  love  to  loiter  in  the 
long  grass,  to  run  like  meadow-mice  between  the 
hassocks,  and  are  cunning  enough  to  hide  and  let 
you  pass  by,  and  then,  when  your  back  is  turned, 
go  sailing  off  in  the  opposite  direction,  giving  fuller 
meaning  than  ever  to  my  translation  of  their  song : 
"/  see  you — -you  can't  see  me" 

While  wandering  over  these  same  meadows  on  a 
golden-gray  October  afternoon,  when  the  sun  is  near 
its  setting,  flushing  myriads  of  sparrows  from  the 
weeds  at  every  step,  we  are  sometimes  startled  by  a 
whirring  of  many  wings,  and  a  company  of  larks 
hurry  to  the  willow  hedges  and  the  posts  of  the 
iniquitous  barbed-wire  fence.  Every  available  prom- 


BY    MlLL-POND    AND    MEADOW.  153 

inence  is  occupied  and  half  the  birds  are  singing. 
This  evening  hymn  here  in  the  lowlands,  like  the 
song  of  the  vesper-sparrow  in  the  fields,  has  a  charm 
that  loses  nothing  even  when  we  recall  the  thrushes 
and  grosbeaks  of  early  summer. 

Let  us  go  back  to  the  mill-pond  by  way  of  the 
meadows.  There  is  a  path  along  the  crooked  little 
creek,  now  as  narrow  and  as  ill-defined  as  was  the 
old  Indian  trail  that  once  passed  this  way,  if  indeed 
they  are  not  identical, — a  weed-grown,  winding  way 
with  the  wide  world  at  our  elbow.  It  is  well  to 
have  nature  within  easy  reach.  Mere  natural  prod- 
ucts are  not  amiss,  but  who  cares  for  potted  plants 
when  orchids  at  home  cluster  about  our  feet? 
There  are  black  and  white  birches  to  shade  us 
all  the  way  should  we  need  shelter  from  the  sun, 
and  never  were  warblers  more  plentiful  among  these 
trees,  every  wrinkle  in  whose  bark  being  a  cup  of 
cheer.  All  too  soon  we  come  to  the  great  high 
dam,  hidden  in  a  young  but  thrifty  forest  of  tall 
trees,  and  here,  above  the  roar  of  the  waters,  we 
can  detect  the  rattling  clatter  of  the  kingfisher.  It 
is  a  thoroughly  wild  sound  amid  much  that  is  arti- 
ficial. This  kingfisher,  when  in  the  gorge,  is  all 
activity,  as  if  it  caught  the  spirit  of  the  leaping 
waters  at  all  times,  if  not  the  silvery  minnows  from 
the  black  pool.  We  used  to  be  taught  that  animals 
were  perfect  when  amid  their  natural  surroundings, 
that  they  were  only  awkward  when  away  from  home  ; 
but  the  kingfisher  does  not  always  aim  aright,  and, 
judging  from  its  actions,  has  not  grown  accustomed 


154 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


to  occasional  failures.  If  my  observations  are  cor- 
rect, its  impatience,  if  not  anger,  is  aroused  by  a 
blunder,  and  it  darts  and  dashes  and  utters  its  wild  cry 
until  exertion  soothes  it,  when,  leaving  the  gloomy 
spot,  it  skims  the  wild  water-way  until  the  pond 

above  is  reached, 
and  in  brighter 
daylight  wonders 
why  it  fails  at  times, 
or  is  it  merely 
waiting  for  the  next 
fish. .  that  comes 
along  ?  Whatever 
its  thoughts,  in  a 
moment  its  atten- 
tion is  centred  on 
some  object  be- 
neath it.  There  is 
a  tremor  through 
the  loose-lying 
feathers  of  its  crest, 
and  the  bird  dives, 
this  time  with 
deadly  aim,  and 
emerges  with  a 
minnow  in  its  beak. 
Though  most  people  will  doubtless  consider  it  a 
wholly  unwarrantable  assumption,  yet  it  seems  to  me 
that  if  any  bird  sits  still  and  thinks,  it  is  the  perching 
kingfisher,  and  in  this  respect  I  do  not  except  our 
hawks.  But  I  am  an  extremist  as  regards  a  bird's  men- 


Kingfisher. 


BY  MILL- POND  AND  MEADOW.  155 

tal  strength,  and  all  that  I  say  may  go  for  nothing  ;  so 
let  us  turn  to  another  subject  If  you  try  your  acute- 
ness  of  vision  by  looking  for  minnows  where  a  king- 
fisher appears  to  see  them,  you  will  wonder  what  sort 
of  eyes  the  bird  has.  Your  experience  will  be  that 
when  the  little  silvery  shiners  do  show  themselves,  it 
is  but  for  an  instant, — a  mere  flash  of  light  and  they 
are  gone  ;  but  in  the  black  pool  at  the  foot  of  the 
dam,  where  so  little  sunlight  falls,  as  well  as  in  the 
broad,  open  waters  of  the  pond,  the  kingfisher  singles 
out  the  victim  that  is  invisible  to  us,  and  generally 
secures  it.  I  have  varied  the  point  of  view  and 
brought  all  manner  of  artificial  aid  to  my  eyesight, 
a  "water-telescope"  alone  excepted,  without  being 
able  to  see  to  any  depth  into  the  pond,  and  have 
utterly  failed  to  solve  the  secret  of  the  kingfisher's 
acuteness  of  vision  ;  yet  hour  after  hour  the  bird 
will  dive  successfully,  not  failing  often  enough  to 
cause  it  to  go  hungry.  For  this  reason,  rather  than 
for  any  special  attraction  in  voice,  manner,  or  mark- 
ings, the  kingfisher  has  always  been  peculiarly  in- 
teresting to  me.  The  old  miller  insists  that  I  do  not 
understand  them,  which  is  very  true,  for  who  can 
truly  comprehend  any  bird?  A  proper  study  of 
this  bird  comprises  more  than  the  details  of  its 
anatomy  and  a  knowledge  of  its  habits.  Call  it  what 
we  may,  there  is  a  something  akin  to  intellectuality 
that  is  recognizable,  but  yet  beyond  our  grasp.  The 
miller  says  that  the  kingfishers  at  the  mill  "know" 
him  very  well,  and  often  come  quite  near,  as  if  out 
of  curiosity,  when  he  is  at  work  at  the  gates. 


156  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

"Do  they  recognize  you  by  your  white  hat?"  I 
asked. 

"No,"  he  indignantly  replied;  "by  my  good 
qualities.  These  kingfishers  and  all  the  birds  about 
here  are  my  friends.  Why,  there's  not  a  barn- 
swallow  in  the  attic  that  won't  let  me  touch  it  on  the 
nest,  nor  a  cat-bird  or  '  fire-fly'  [he  meant  redstart] 
that  won't  come  at  call ;  and  if  it  wasn't  for  gunners, 
the  wild  ducks  would  swim  up  the  tail-race  to  feed. 
One  funny  little  diver  does  come  every  spring  and  fall." 

I  had  found  a  treasure  in  the  dusty  miller,  and  all 
my  tactics  changed.  His  inordinate  self-esteem  was 
in  part  excusable  and  more  amusing  than  offensive. 
The  man  was  truthful  as  this  world  goes  ;  so  I  was 
all  smiles  and  credulity,  and  let  him  tell  me  about 
the  mill-pond  birds. 

"Somehow,  the  red-winged  blackbirds  take  my 
fancy  most  There's  a  cheer  in  the  ring  of  their 
voices,  when  pretty  near  a  thousand  of  'em  sing  out 
together,  that  stirs  you  up  like  a  camp-meetin'  con- 
cert. Somehow,  I've  got  in  the  way  of  always 
lookin'  up  the  pond  from  the  mill  door  for  the  first 
of  'em  any  time  in  February,  and  March  doesn't 
seem  such  a  bad  month  when  the  blackbirds  are 
sprinkled  all  over  the  meadows.  I  can  hear  'em, 
with  a  south  wind,  when  they're  all  'way  down  along 
the  lower  marsh.  I  like  'em  ;  and  no  matter  how 
the  old  mill  rattles,  if  one  of  'em  sings  out  ho-ko-leey 
I'm  right  on  hand  and  don't  lose  much  of  the  music. 
Oh,  it's  fine  when  they  pair  off  and  get  to  nest- 
buildin'  in  the  bushes  across  the  pond.  There's 


BY    MlLL-POND    AND    MEADOW. 


157 


never  a  day  when  the  cock  birds  don't  whistle  their 
throats  sore,  I  should  think,  but  none  of  'em  get 
sick,  to  my  knowledge,  no  more  than  I  get  tired  of 
listenin'  to  'em." 

"  But  what  about  the  other  birds,  along  in  early 
May?"  I  asked. 

"  Yes,  they're  all  here,  and  they're  all  good  in  their 


Red- winged  Blackbird. 

way,  but  they  don't  go  to  the  spot  like  a  red-wing," 
said  the  miller,  very  earnestly. 

"Not  the  thrush?"  I  asked. 

"Too  solemn-like,"  said  the  miller,  gravely.  "I 
like  music  that's  like  the  noise  of  children  out  of 
school ;  good,  hearty,  take-the-world-easy  music,  and 
that's  the  red-wing  every  time.  They  have  a  good 
time  themselves,  and  preach  that  doctrine  in  their 
singin',  so  it  sounds  to  me.  Somehow,  I  feel  lone- 

14 


158  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

some-like  when  the  big  flocks  move  off,  'long  late 
in  the  fall ;  but  it's  a  short  winter  for  me  when  Feb- 
ruary comes  round  and  they're  all  back  again." 

Think  of  it !  Suppose  that  such  appreciative 
people  were  scattered  all  over  the  country ;  what  a 
paradise  for  birds  would  be  every  field,  meadow, 
and  by-way  ! 

I  let  the  old  man  rest  for  a  few  minutes,  for  I  saw 
that  he  was  gathering  in  the  bird-full  days  of  past 
years,  and  would  soon  be  ready  to  answer  further 
queries ;  I  saw,  too,  that  I  must  lead  him  in  the 
directions  that  most  appealed  to  me,  or  his  fund  of 
coveted  facts  would  never  be  reached.  I  needed 
tact,  which  I  am  not  blessed  with,  and  was  lucky 
to-day  in  not  blundering. 

"  What  about  the  water-birds  that  stay  around  the 
pond?  I  have  seen  herons  fly  up  and  down,"  I 
remarked,  after  a  lengthy  pause. 

"Do  you  mean  big  and  little  cranes?"  he  asked, 
in  reply. 

"I  do ;  but  they  are  not  true  cranes,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"True  ones  or  false  ones,  that's  what  I  know  'em 
as,  and  of  course  they're  here.  Up  at  the  pond-head 
they  have  their  nests,  the  little  greenish-like  ones 
and  the  blue  and  white  ones  that  fly  over  at  night. 
'Quoks,'  they  call  'em." 

"Yes,  they  are  the  birds  I  mean,"  I  said,  impa- 
tiently. 

"  I  don't  see  much  in  'em.  They  don't  come 
about  sociable-like,  and,  stand  where  you  may, 


BY    MlLL-POND   AND    MEADOW. 


159 


they're  always  on  the  other  side  of  the  pond  ;  I 
mean  the  little  ones.  Yet  somehow  they're  sort  o' 
cunnin'.  When  we  had  to  draw  off  the  pond,  last 
summer,  they  just  got  crazy  over  the  little  fish  and 
things  left  in  holes  on  the  bottom,  and  didn't  seem 
to  mind  me  so  much  :  sort  o'  thanked  me  like  for 
givin'  'em  such  a  chance  to  get  a  square  meal.  But, 
after  all,  what  can  you  see  in  a  bird  that's  either 


Green  Herons. 

comin'  and  goin'  all  day  or  else  sleepin'  on  one  leg  ? 
Now,  the  red-wings " 

"Do  they  always  sleep  that  way?"  I  interrupted. 

"  Don't  know  ;  but  they  don't  sing,  that's  certain, 
any  more  than  the  big  quoks  that  go  over  about 
sunset.  When  the  mill's  goin'  all  night,  in  summer- 
time, I  .have  seen  these  big  quoks  light  down  by  the 
water  and  walk  up  and  down  a  little,  and  how  big 


160  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

the  moonlight  makes  'em  !  They're  after  fish,  I 
suppose?"  and  the  miller  paused  for  a  reply. 

I  merely  nodded  assent. 

"Well,  they  must  be  pretty  supple  to  catch  'em. 
I've  tried  dartin'  a  scoop-net  after  minnies,  and  it's 
more  work  than  fun,  and  the  herons,  as  you  call  'em, 
have  to  go  about  it  one  at  a  time.  Lean  see  how  a 
kingfisher  can  dive  for  a  fish,  but  these  quoks  don't 
dive,  do  they?" 

I  nodded  dissent 

"A  shootin'  out  of  their  long  necks  and  the 
thing's  done.  Well,  it  beats  me,"  and  the  miller  fell 
to  musing  on  the  marvellous  things  he  had  seen. 

"  Did  you  ever  go  to  the  pond-head,"  he  asked, 
after  a  few  minutes'  silence,  "and  see  the  herons' 
nests?" 

I  told  him  that  I  had. 

"  Well,  I  went  once  and  saw  some  fun  if  I  didn't 
see  the  nests  the  birds  had  set  up  in  the  trees,"  and 
the  miller  began  laughing  to  himself. 

"Tell  me,"  I  suggested. 

"  Course  I  will ;  but  I  wouldn't  if  you  was  the 
same  stripe,"  he  replied. 

"Why  not?"  I  asked,  in  some  surprise. 

"  Well,  it  was  a  joke  o'  mine,  and  this  is  how  I  shut 
'em  off.  Some  men  came  down  here  from  town  and 
hired  my  boat  about  sunset,  and,  by  good  luck,  I 
happened  to  see  that  a  stick  one  of  'em  carried  was 
a  cane  gun.  It  struck  me  all  of  a  sudden  they 
might  be  up  to  some  mischief  as  to  them  big  and 
little  cranes,  so  I  followed  'em,  soon  as  dark,  and 


Night-heron. 


BY    MILL-POND    AND    MEADOW.  163 

'fore  I  went  made  a  willow  whistle  that  could  out- 
screech  a  whole  railroad.  I  saw  they  made  for 
where  the  quoks  and  little  cranes " 

"  Herons  ;  not  cranes." 

"  Well,  herons,  then,  and  I  suspected  they  meant 
to  shoot  some.  The  pond-bank  is  in  and  out  up 
there,  you  know,  and  I  kept  in  shadow,  and  when 
I  thought  about  right,  I  gave  a  blow  on  the  whistle. 
Every  heron,  big  and  little,  rose  up,  and  such  a 
clatter  !  I  heard  one  of  the  fellows  say,  '  Shoot ! ' 
but  he  didn't,  and  I  gave  another  screech  that  made 
everything  rattle,  and  first  I  knew,  those  fellows  was 
a-scuddin'  down  the  middle  of  the  pond  like  light- 
nin'.  I  kept  a-blowin',  only  soft-like,  on  the  thing, 
and  followed  kind  o'  close.  They  thought  they  was 
chased  and  went  on  like  mad.  I  was  ashore,  near 
by  'em,  'most  as  soon  as  they  was,  and,  slinkin' 
round  by  the  back  way,  met  'em  while  they  was 
standin'  under  the  shed,  gettin'  their  horse,  and 
every  one,  so  far  as  I  could  make  out,  was  in  a  dead 
tremble.  They  didn't  so  much  as  say  '  good-night' 
when  I  went  up  to  'em,  sleepy  like,  and  asked  'em 
where  they'd  been." 

These  beautiful  night-herons,  the  miller's  "  quoks," 
have  not  fared  so  well  of  recent  years,  and  there  are 
now  no  large  heronries  within  a  day's  journey ;  or, 
if  any  remain,  they  are  so  hidden  in  out-of-the-way 
corners  that  no  one  has  discovered  them.  When 
I  think  of  the  slaughter  of  night-herons,  I  cannot 
find  words  in  the  dictionary  to  fairly  express  my 
feelings.  On  more  than  one  occasion  I  coined 


164 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


words  that  nearly  suited  me,  and  gave  expression 
to  them,  too  ;  but  my  publishers  declined  to  print 
them ;  and  so,  under  protest,  I  will  pass  on. 

I  was  at  one  time  under  the  impression  that  the 
quaint  bitterns  did  not  come  here,  but  what  an  addi- 
tion they  are  to  the  meadows  !  That  wonderful 
"booming"  has  all  the  wildness  and  weirdness  of 
Indian  times  in  it.  Once  I  thought  I  would  offer  a 


Bittern. 

townsman  a  treat  by  conducting  him  to  where  he 
could  hear  and  probably  see  the  birds.  He  was  de- 
lighted, and  took  up  his  gun,  saying  that  they  were 
"  excellent  eating." 

I  didn't  go. 

There  is  no  sound  in  nature  so  hopelessly  beyond 
description  as  the  booming  of  the  bittern.  To  a 
certain  extent  it  is  so  far  the  same  under  nearly  all 
circumstances  as  to  be  recognized  at  once  ;  but  the 


BY  MILL- POND  AND  MEADOW.  165 

direction  of  the  wind,  the  light  or  heavy  atmosphere, 
whether  heard  by  day  or  by  night, — all  these  con- 
ditions go  far  to  determine  the  impression  made 
upon  us  by  this  wild  and  wary  bird,  whose  cry  may 
sometimes  be  mistaken  for  the  noise  made  by  a 
workman  busy  in  the  marsh,  or  a  locomotive  in  the 
distance  discharging  surplus  steam.  I  have  some- 
times wondered  if  ventriloquism  was  not  a  factor, 
for  I  have  frequently  heard  the  booming — this  oom- 
buh — sounding  as  if  it  had  travelled  a  mile  or  more 
over  the  meadow,  when  in  reality  the  bird  has  been 
but  a  few  rods  away.  When  all  the  conditions  are 
favorable,  it  proves  to  be  a  trisyllabic  utterance,  but 
not  quite  the  "  0  be  gush"  suggested  by  a  plain- 
spoken  countryman,  who  said  that  "  these  frog-eatin' 
grunters  once  kep'  me  awake  o'  nights."  There  is 
no  such  abundance  of  bitterns  nowadays.  They  are 
seen  alone  or  in  pairs,  and  parcel  out  the  country  so 
that  each  pair  or  individual  ranges  over  a  wide  terri- 
tory unfrequented  by  others.  The  old  miller  said 
that  there  was  never  more  than  one  pair  at  a  time 
about  the  pond,  so  far  as  he  had  noticed,  and  some 
years  there  were  none,  he  added,  with  some  bitter- 
ness. 

"There  are  no  ducks  now,  like  there  was  some 
twenty  years  ago.  Everything  looks  the  same  to 
me,  but  it's  changed  to  them.  'Long  late  in  the 
fall,  when  there  was  no  more  fishermen  and  pic- 
nickers, the  black-and-white  butter-balls  would  come 
in,  and  they  bobbed  about  like  corks  when  the 
water's  rough.  One  season  I  threw  stuff  out  on  the 


1 66  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

pond,  but  they  didn't  take  to  it ;  but  the  way  they'd 
dive  when  I  showed  myself  was  worth  seein'.  There 
was  no  tamin'  'em,  that  I  could  find  out,  but  I  like 
to  have  'em  around.  When  there  was  a  rousin'  old 
northeast  storm,  whole  flocks  of  'em  would  take 
shelter  here  sometimes,  but  the  gunners  soon  found 
'em  out  and  spoilt  my  fun." 

"Wasn't  there  any  other  kind  of  duck  on  the 
pond?"  I  asked. 

"Plenty,  at  times,  but  all  of  the  come-and-go 
sort,  except  wood-ducks,  that  used  to  breed  when 
there  was  big  timber  up  the  pond  ;  and  once  there 
was  a  pair  of  black  ducks  here  all  summer.  They 
didn't  show  themselves  much  in  the  daytime,  but  I 
saw  them  every  once  in  a  while  after  dark.  How 
they  kept  clear  of  those  loafers  with  guns  that's 
always  around  is  more'n  I  can  tell." 

"Why,  don't  you  suppose  that  a  bird  of  any  kind 
has  cunning  and  knows  a  thing  or  two  ?"  I  asked. 

"Well,  I  guess,"  replied  the  miller;  "there's  been 
more'n  one  cunnin'  bird  around  this  mill.  Why,  the 
cat-birds  and  a  little  yellow  singer  [summer  warbler, 
he  meant]  and  a  lot  more  got  so  tame  I  could  go 
anywhere  about  'em,  but  they  didn't  let  a  stranger 
do  it ;  and  I  was  tellin'  you  about  a  little  diver  that 
came  up  the  tail-race.  It  had  side  whiskers  and  a 
smart  way  of  lookin'  at  you  that  showed  it  was  up 
to  snuff  It  lived  under  the  water  as  much  as  on 
top,  and  if  quickness  was  all,  it  didn't  make  twice 
for  the  same  minnie." 

"  Did  it  stay  in  the  race?"  I  asked. 


BY  MILL- POND  AND  MEADOW.  169 

"  I  never  saw  it  upon  the  pond,"  the  miller  replied  ; 
"  but  the  little  smooth-headed  devil-divers  are  com- 
mon enough,  and  often  there's  the  blue  coot  and 
another  one  that  runs  along  the  shore." 

The  miller  meant  a  gallinule  by  the  one  "  running 
along  the  shore,"  a  not  uncommon  bird,  though 
rather  shy ;  but  I  was  glad  to  hear  of  the  common 
coot:  "crow  duck"  the  gunners  call  it.  I  have 
long  known  that  they  breed  here  and  in  Crosswicks 
Creek,  near  by ;  but  those  wonderful  bird-men  who 


Buffle-headed  Duck. 

have  reduced  ornithology  to  a  "science"  have  also 
reduced  the  number  of  birds  that  belong  to  this 
locality.  I  imagine  that  the  birds  do  not  care 
much. 

"All  these  water-birds  seem  to  know  it's  un- 
healthy for  'em  about  here,"  remarked  the  miller, 
"and  only  show  up  after  sundown,  when  they  think 
everybody's  gone  home  ;  but  they  miss  it  sometimes. 
I  wonder  any  bird  stays  about  that's  bigger' n  a 
pigeon.  If  I'd  told  about  that  diver  with  whiskers, 
H  15 


170  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

it  'Id  'a'  been  shot  on  the  same  day ;   but  nobody 
looked  down  there  for  anything." 

"It  would  have  dodged  the  gunners,  I  guess,"  I 
replied  ;  "  for  a  close  observer  tells  me  that  those 
that  he  sees  about  where  he  lives,  in  New  Hamp- 
shire, '  are  usually  pretty  tame,  and  if  shot  at  before 
they  have  taken  alarm  are  easily  killed  ;  but  if  the 
first  shot  fails,  you  may  blaze  away  all  day  without 
any  effect.  I  never  knew  one  to  be  tired  out  by 
diving  during  constant  firing.  At  such  times  they 


Eared  Grebe. 

go  perhaps  fifty  yards  under  water  each  time.  Their 
flight  is  straight  and  tremendously  swift.' ' 

"  Perhaps  ;  but  I'd  rather  have  the  birds  that  come 
here  run  no  risk.  I  never  get  tired  o'  seein'  'em, 
whatever  the  kind." 

The  old  man  was  getting  prosy  and  I  longed  for 
a  walk,  so  I  turned  back  to  the  meadows  while  yet 
a  little  of  the  day  was  left  My  thoughts  still  ran 
on  the  subject  of  our  water-birds,  and  I  was  anxious 
to  see  some  of  them  before  dark ;  but  there  was 
nothing  now  to  attract  them  inland.  The  river  itself 
was  low  and  the  creek  almost  choked  with  rank 


BY    MlLL-POND    AND    MEADOW. 


I/I 


growths  of  spatterdock  and  pickerel-weed.  Be  a 
place  ever  so  bird-full,  there  are  hours  and  days 
when  it  is  quiet  I  scarcely  disturbed  a  sparrow 
as  I  pushed  on  through  the  bushes  and  tall  grass 
and  at  last  reached  the  creek  not  far  from  its  mouth. 
It  is  always  a  pleasant  surprise,  when  walking 
through  gloomy  woods  or  tall  weeds  that  hem  you 
in  as  effectually  as  a  tropical  jungle,  to  suddenly 
enter  a  wide  open  space.  The  world  seemed  very 
small  before,  but  not  so  now ;  and  what  an  outlook 


Herring  Gull. 


was  presented  by  the  wide  river's  still  unaltered 
shores  !  There  was  not  a  trace  of  man's  work  to 
be  seen  from  where  I  stood,  not  even  the  roof  of  a 
barn  ;  and  here  many  a  strictly  water-bird  is  likely 
to  be  seen.  The  common  herring  gull  is  no  stranger 
here, — more  than  one  hundred  miles  from  the  sea 
by  way  of  the  river  and  half  that  distance  overland. 
After  severe  spring  and  autumn  storms  these  birds 
are  common  for  a  day  or  two  in  the  meadows,  and 
if  there  is  open  water  they  are  abundant  about  the 
river  all  winter.  The  old  miller  spoke  of  changes 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

that  he  had  noticed  during  the  past  twenty  years, 
but  what  a  complete  and  pitiful  change  has  taken 
place  in  this  respect  in  about  a  century  or  a  little 
more  !  Then  these  gulls  were  here  throughout  the 
year,  an  every-day  feature  of  the  river,  instead 
of,  as  now,  an  occasional  one.  Pelicans  and  true 
cranes  disappeared  long  ago,  and  in  a  few  years, 
perhaps,  a  gull  will  be  a  curiosity.  In  this  particular 
region,  where  Nature  has  been  lavish  of  her  gifts, 
and  has,  as  it  were,  called  the  birds,  man  has  been 


Tern. 

more  than  usually  destructive  ;  consequently  these 
birds  are  scarcer  than  about  most  river-valleys.  The 
same  may  be  said  of  terns  as  of  gulls.  They  are 
even  less  often  seen,  although  it  must  be  remem- 
bered that  there  are  far  fewer  of  them  along  the 
sea-coast,  where  they  more  properly  belong ;  but  for 
their  absence  we  alone  are  to  blame. 

When  a  typical  January  thaw  occurs,  and  the  melted 
and  melting  ice  and  snow  come  rushing  down  from 
the  mountains,  our  meadows  are  often  converted  into 
pretty  inland  lakes.  The  summer  pastures  are  some- 


BY    MlLL-POND   AND    MEADOW.  173 

times  covered  to  a  depth  of  ten  feet  by  the  chilly 
waters  of  a  winter's  flood,  and  then  what  a  place  to 
wander  in  a  boat !  I  always  forget  the  cold  and 
possible  rheumatic  pains  while  chasing  the  drowned- 
out  musk-rats  and  laughing  with  the  crows  that  float 
upon  any  chance  raft  that  their  good  fortune  offers. 
Crows  are  the  business  community  of  the  bird-world, 
with  all  of  the  "  devil-take-the-hindmost"  element  in 
their  methods.  They  enjoy  a  flood.  Noisy  as  they 
frequently  are  when  nothing  unusual  has  happened, 
they  are  even  more  so  now,  and  there  are  times 
when  I  really  believe  that  they  laugh.  They  are 
great  talkers,  so  why  should  they  not  have  a  sense 
of  humor?  But  it  is  needless  to  enlarge  upon  this 
matter :  they  do,  and  that  is  the  end  of  it.  During 
these  winter  freshets  I  most  frequently  see  the  tern. 
It  is  literally  a  transient  visitor,  and  for  that  reason 
seems  the  more  beautiful ;  for  birds  are,  perhaps, 
less  valued  when  always  abundant.  How  often 
have  you  stopped  to  admire  a  swallow  ?  yet  this  bird 
in  full  career,  seen  against  the  dark-blue  summer 
sky,  is  one  of  the  world's  wonders.  Familiarity  may 
in  some  cases  breed  contempt,  but  as  regards  any 
feature  of  bird-life  it  should  not  cause  us  to  be  even 
indifferent.  After  the  birds  have  gone  we  realize 
what  a  blessing  they  have  been. 

Later,  when  the  flood  is  a  matter  of  dim  remem- 
brance to  most  people,  we  grow  indifferent  as  to 
what  nature  is  about ;  but  while  the  river  is  still 
a  swollen,  turbulent,  and  rapid  stream  we  may  see, 
if  on  the  lookout,  the  great  northern  diver,  the 

15* 


1/4  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

weird,  wild,  laughing  loon,  another  transient  visitor 
here,  more  common  on  the  coast  It  keeps  care- 
fully— by  day,  at  least — in  the  middle  of  the  river 
at  its  widest  part,  and  can  never  be  caught  napping. 
Mr.  Cram,  writing  from  Southern  New  Hampshire, 
says,  "  The  loon  is  abundant  during  spring  and  fall. 
For  two  or  three  hours  after  sunrise  they  fly  close  in 
shore,  and  the  gunners  station  themselves  on  Great 


Loon. 

Boar's  Head  and  in  boats  off  the  point  Hundreds 
are  killed.  They  have  a  rapid,  direct  flight,  and  as 
they  approach  the  Head  increase  their  speed  to  a 
tremendous  rate  and  dash  between  the  men,  some- 
times flying  so  low  as  almost  to  touch  the  grass.  I 
am  told  that  the  spring  flight  comes  just  as  the  red 
maples  blossom." 

Even  after  turning  our  backs  upon  the  pleasant 
incidents  of  an  eventful  day  there  is  a  pleasure  in 


BY  MILL- POND  AND  MEADOW.  175 

store  that  dulls  the  sense  of  regret,  however  keen  : 
the  thought  of  being  homeward  bound.  It  is  always 
worth  the  day's  severest  toil  to  know  that  home  is 
never  beyond  reach  ;  but  in  order  to  fully  realize 
what  home-coming  really  means,  he  who  spends  his 
time  in  studying  nature  must  be  able  to  take  with 
him  distinct  impressions  of  what  has  happened. 
There  must  enter  no  doubt  even  as  to  the  smallest 
particulars.  At  home  and  at  rest,  we  should  appre- 
ciate more  thoroughly  and  penetrate  with  keener 
vision  into  whatsoever  transpired  while  we  loitered 
about  the  mill-pond  or  rambled  across  the  meadows. 


CHAPTER   VII. 


"MORE    NOISE   THAN    MUSIC. 

"A  /I  ORE  noise  than  music,"  such  was  the  com- 
1  V 1  ment  of  a  townsman  who  persists  in  coming 
into  the  country,  when  a  lively  golden-winged  wood- 
pecker chattered  and  chuckled  as  it  tarried  in  the 
tree  by  which  we  were  standing ;  and  not  ten  min- 
utes later,  when  a  downy  woodpecker  pecked  vigor- 
ously on  the  dead  limb  of  a  near-by  oak,  this 
townsman  remarked,  "  That  makes  what  I  said  more 
true  than  ever ;  one  squeaks  and  the  other  bangs, — 
a  sort  of  broken  fife  and  cracked  drum  affair ;"  and 
he  laughed,  thinking  that  he  had  said  something  very 
funny. 

This  is  not  a  mere  matter  of  taste  ;  the  fellow  was 
a  fool  to  talk  as  he  did.  Can  any  healthy  sound — 
one  that  has  all  the  elements  of  unmarred  nature 
behind  it — be  harsh  and  out  of  tune  to  those  who 
really  appreciate  wild  life?  Can  man's  extreme 
artificiality  so  completely  wean  him  from  the  less 
favored  forms  of  life  that  their  mere  presence  seems 
something  to  be  shunned  ? 
176 


"  MORE  NOISE  THAN  Music." 


177 


I  love  to  loiter.  In  the  leafless  woods,  if  the 
south  wind  is  gently  stealing  through  them,  there 
is  sufficient  inducement  to  ramble  and,  while  stroll- 
ing in  the  forest  by-paths,  to  pry  into  every  petty 
cavern  at  an  old  tree's  root,  hoping  to  find  at  least 
an  opossum  and  possibly  scaring  a  mouse  ;  or  to 


Golden- winged  Woodpecker. 

gaze  up  into  the  interlacing  branches  of  clustered 
oaks,  or  to  wonder  what  may  be  hidden  in  the 
shadows  of  the  impenetrable  cedars.  There  is  ever 
more  than  sufficient  to  warrant  a  walk  in  the  woods, 
even  in  winter ;  and  when  frost  withholds  its  chilly 
touch  for  the  day,  it  is  pleasant  to  loiter  there,  to 


178  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

stand  still  in  the  sunshine  that  revives  our  sluggish 
senses.  Even  though  no  squirrel  complain,  no  shrew 
threaten  ill  luck  by  crossing  our  path ;  ay,  even  if 
no  birds  be  there,  it  is  well  to  linger  in  the  leafless 
woods.  Trees  are  far  better  company  than  that 
hypercritical  townsman.  But  I  have  seldom  found 
myself  alone  in  the  woods  ;  I  have  only  lacked  com- 
pany in  town.  The  truth  is,  there  is  always  a  bird 
at  hand,  though  we  are  often  too  blind  to  see  it. 
All  through  my  note-books  occurs  the  expression  a 
"bird-less"  day.  I  doubt  if  any  such  ever  hap- 
pened. Usually  birds  will  follow  you,  but  at  times 
you  must  search  them  out.  Why  ?  That  is  another 
matter.  In  the  woods,  at  any  time  when  one  is 
likely  to  take  a  walk,  the  little  brown  tree-creeper, 
silent,  it  may  be,  as  a  frightened  mouse,  is  some- 
where hurrying  about  the  wrinkled  bark  of  birch  or 
oak  or  peering  into  the  narrow  cracks  of  the  stately 
beeches  ;  nuthatches,  too,  that  fret  in  their  progress 
over  the  same  route,  as  if  the  smaller  creeper  had 
taken  all  their  food  ;  or  sparrows  may  come  drifting 
in  from  the  fields  and  twitter  their  satisfaction  at  new 
sights  ;  and  down  the  foot-path  way,  where  the  oldest 
trees  bear  the  burden  of  many  a  withered  branch, 
woodpeckers  will  most  likely  be  found.  They  ap- 
pear to  delight  most,  these  wintry  days,  in  the  de- 
caying remnants  of  old  forests,  and  I  am  always 
ready  to  follow  at  their  call.  The  long  roll  of  their 
drum-like  tapping  has  nothing  forbidding  in  it  to 
those  who  are  willing  to  accept  nature's  offerings  in 
the  proper  spirit  It  is  something  more  than  mere 


"MORE  NOISE  THAN  Music."  179 

noise,  except  to  those  who  are  themselves  "  out  of 
tune  and  harsh."  It  is  a  sound  that  attracts,  that 
bids  us  quicken  our  steps,  for  we  are  at  once  curious, 
on  hearing  the  drumming,  to  see  the  drummer. 
There  is  no  other  sound  in  the  woods  or  out  of 
them,  so  far  as  I  know,  with  which  it  can  be  con- 
founded, and  as  its  tone  and  other  features  depend 
upon  the  limb  struck  as  well  as  upon  the  temper 
of  the  striker,  they  differ  a  great  deal ;  but  the  asser- 
tion that  the  different  small  woodpeckers  may  be 
readily  recognized  by  their  respective  tattoos  is  a 
refinement  beyond  the  appreciation  of  the  average 
listener,  and  will  doubtless  be  relegated  to  the  realms 
of  imagination  by  most  people.  There  does  not  ap- 
pear to  be  any  set  rule  for  their  drumming,  and  the 
birds  are  too  constantly  on  the  alert,  as  if  in  per- 
petual dread  of  enemies,  to  test  the  resonant  merits 
of  all  the  trees,  or  to  be  at  all  precise  and  methodi- 
cal when  they  drum  for  the  mere  sake  of  the  sound 
produced.  They  tap  trees  because  they  are  forced 
to  to  reach  their  food,  and  tap  again  to  determine 
if  there  are  grubs  lurking  under  the  bark,  and  tug 
vehemently  at  the  wood  when  digging  a  nest  hole, 
— all  noisy  operations ;  and  sometimes  they  tap 
more  rapidly  than  ever,  as  if  they  enjoyed  the 
sound  thereby  produced.  That  the  latter  statement 
is  correct  has  been  proved  by  many  an  incident. 
Mr.  Cram's  anecdote  of  a  flicker  or  golden-winged 
woodpecker  illustrates  this.  He  says,  "  Not  always 
do  woodpeckers  devote  themselves  to  hard  labor  ; 
every  now  and  then  they  will  take  a  day  off  and 


i8o  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

abandon  themselves  to  the  rapture  of  ungovernable 
drumming.  I  have  known  a  golden-winged  wood- 
pecker to  select  a  deserted  bird-house  in  the  orchard 
for  the  scene  of  his  operations,  and  drum  away  in 
apparent  ecstasy  until  he  had  almost  rattled  it  to 
pieces.  Another  suddenly  discovered  the  zinc  ven- 
tilator on  a  school-house  near  by,  and  it  evidently 
struck  him  as  a  most  favorable  object.  He  surveyed 
it  critically,  decided  that  it  promised  good  results, 
and  gave  it  a  preliminary  drumming.  The  racket 
was  amazing,  and  the  unexpected  success  which  the 
bird  achieved  frightened  him  almost  into  convulsions. 
He  fled  precipitately  ;  but  the  fascination  of  the  ven- 
tilator was  too  great  to  be  resisted,  and  he  returned 
with  renewed  courage.  In  a  little  while  he  became 
familiar  with  his  success,  and  as  a  result  returned 
again  and  again  throughout  the  entire  season.  I 
fear  his  brain  was  turned  with  a  triumph  which  was 
enough  to  make  any  woodpecker  conceited." 

Occasionally,  at  home,  this  same  bird — "flicker," 
as  we  call  it — will  cling  to  the  side  of  the  barn  or 
stable  and  even  go  so  far  as  to  peck  a  hole  entirely 
through  a  board.  On  one  occasion  it  found  a  loose 
end  of  a  split  board  that,  when  struck,  rebounded 
and  gave  out  a  resounding  drum-like  note  that  could 
be  heard  a  long  distance.  The  bird,  like  Mr.  Cram's 
woodpecker,  was  delighted  with  its  discovery, — that 
is,  until  I  played  a  little  trick  on  it  Going  into 
the  barn-loft  with  a  tube  filled  with  flour,  I  waited 
until  it  was  wrapped  up  in  its  ecstatic  drumming, 
and  then  puffed  a  cloud  of  flour-dust  into  its  face. 


"  MORE  NOISE  THAN  Music." 


181 


What  a  wild  scream  it  gave  !  It  is  needless  to  add 
that  it  never  returned.  Like  all  woodpeckers,  this 
golden-winged  one  has  a  range  of  vocal  utterances, 
and  can  make  any  amount  of  noise  by  other  means 
than  drumming.  But  the  term  "noise"  is  not  ap- 
propriate. It  is  always  a  welcome  sound,  a  suggestive 
one,  that  calls  up  pleasant 
pictures  only,  and  therefore 
is  nearer  akin  to  true  music 
than  many  a  wild  "yawp" 
that  rings  through  crowded 
parlors.  Even  the  loose 
harp-string  ke-yeh  has  a 
pleasant  ring  to  it,  and  the 
wkit-cheh,  three  or  four 
times  repeated,  is  a  peculiar 
utterance  that  at  once  at- 
tracts our  attention.  Flick- 
ers are  birds  of  the  whole 
year,  and  it  is  hard  to  say 
when  they  are  most  enter- 
taining. I  like  them  best, 
perhaps,  in  August.  They 
are  then  a  meadow  bird,  and 
a  ground  bird  at  that, 
leaving  the  trees  much  of 

the  time  and  chasing  crickets  over  the  pastures. 
They  have  not  yet  learned  the  value  of  mimicry 
as  a  protection,  and  so  get  up  as  you  approach, 
showing  a  great  deal  of  white  feather,  but  not  alto- 
gether through  fear.  Their  coloring,  did  they  but 

16 


Downy  Woodpecker. 


1 82  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

know  it,  blends  well  with  dead  grass  and  the  mot- 
tled surfaces  of  old  pastures,  and  by  squatting  they 
could  readily  escape  detection,  notwithstanding  that 
the  yellow  quills  and  black  feathers,  when  detached, 
are  such  prominent  objects.  At  this  time  of  year 
they  associate  in  the  most  friendly  way  with  robins, 
and  large  loose  flocks  of  these  very  dissimilar  birds 
may  often  be  seen  ranging  over  the  meadows  and 
roosting  together  at  night  in  the  cedars  of  the 
hill-side.  These  birds  do  not  separate  until  after 
the  initial  frost  and  thin  ice  of  late  October,  and 
even  at  this  season,  when  a  few  warm  days  attempt 
a  new  summer  on  the  ruins  of  the  old,  they  still 
range  the  lowlands  and,  gathering  in  the  tall  shell- 
barks,  hold  a  wordy  rather  than  a  noisy  conven- 
tion. The  woodpeckers  do  not  think  of  drumming 
now,  or  they  would  never  miss  the  opportunity  of 
rattling  the  long  strips  of  bark  that  cling  like  torn 
ribbons  to  these  meadow  hickories. 

One  feature  of  the  flicker's  habits  should  not  be 
passed  by.  They  are  not  nocturnal  birds,  yet  they 
sometimes  work  all  night  at  nest-building ;  nor  are 
they  quiet  about  it :  the  tap,  tap,  tap  is  loud  enough 
to  attract  every  one  of  their  enemies  ;  but  if  they 
are  aware  of  this,  the  fact  does  not  disturb  them. 
Do  the  other  woodpeckers  labor  at  night  ?  In  one 
instance,  where  the  birds  worked  on  an  apple-tree 
quite  near  a  farmer's  house,  they  gave  the  im- 
pression of  burglars  breaking  in,  and  consequently 
the  family  were  kept  painfully  awake  until  morn- 
ing. Only  by  accident  was  the  truth  discovered. 


"MORE  NOISE  THAN  Music."  183 

I  wonder  how  often  the  tapping  of  a  flicker  has 
given  rise  to  ghost  stories  that  have  never  been 
unravelled. 

The    true    sapsuckers,    or    yellow-bellied    wood- 
peckers,   in    the    days    of   great   orchards    and    big 


;\ 

Yellow-bellied  Woodpecker. 

cider-mills  and  the  distillery, — that  is,  fifty  years  or 
more  ago, — were  resident  as  well  as  migratory  birds, 
and  even  now  they  are  occasionally  seen  during  the 
summer  months ;  but  it  is  in  the  fall,  when  the 
apples  are  being  gathered,  that  we  most  frequently 
observe  them.  They  run  about  the  trees  like  the 


184  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

common  downy  woodpecker  and  chatter  or  squeak 
a  little  ;  then,  taking  to  some  tall  tree,  run  to  the 
highest  point  that  will  bear  their  weight  and  from 
it  launch  into  the  air  and  soon  pass  out  of  sight. 
Whatever  damage  they  may  do  elsewhere,  these 
birds  do  not  check  the  growth  of  new  orchards  here  ; 
all  the  sap  that  they  take  is  easily  spared. 

It  sometimes  happens  that  we  have  a  woodpecker 
day  here  in  midwinter.  Flickers,  red-heads,  downies, 
and  perhaps  hairy  woodpeckers, — all  may  be  seen 
skipping  about  the  fences  and  racing  up  and  down 
the  fields  like  so  many  sparrows.  Is  it  a  migratory 
"wave"  from  the  north?  My  notes  do  hot  indicate 
any  special  variation  in  the  weather  immediately 
afterwards.  At  other  times  of  the  year  these  birds 
do  not  associate  to  any  noticeable  degree,  but  it  was 
evident,  in  the  instances  to  which  I  refer,  that  their 
simultaneous  appearance  was  due  to  something  more 
than  mere  coincidence.  The  outreaching  posts  of 
the  old  worm-fences  are  favorite  outlooks  with  these 
visiting  birds,  and  when  the  sun  shines  on  the  bright 
red  heads  of  one  species,  gives  added  glitter  to  the 
black  and  white  of  another,  and  shows  the  rich 
coloring  of  the  golden-wing,  there  is  presented  a 
startling  display  that  is  long  retained  in  our  memory. 

The  three-toed  woodpeckers  of  the  north  do 
not  come  here,  it  would  seem,  even  as  stragglers, 
but  if  they  did,  they  might  readily  be  overlooked. 
Mr.  Cram  says  that  "  they  are  much  like  other  wood- 
peckers and  are  generally  seen  in  deep  woods.  One 
winter,  six  or  eight  years  ago,  they  were  quite  com- 


"  MORE  NOISE  THAN  Music.' 


185 


mon."  When  we  consider  that  from  Southern  New 
Hampshire  to  Southern  New  Jersey  is  not  so  very 
great  a  distance  for  migrating  or  wandering  birds  to 
travel,  it  is  surprising  that  they  keep  so  closely  to 
their  proper  haunts.  There  are  no  barriers  to  flight, 
and  to  even  weak-winged  birds  two  or  three  hun- 
dred miles  is  not  a 
matter  of  importance. 
If  there  is  a  reason 
for  the  journey,  they 
are  able  to  take  it 

Take  the  few 
woodpeckers  that  are 
native  here,  and  in- 
clude the  now  rare 
pileated  1  o  g-c  o  c  k, 
once  so  common,  and 
it  must  be  admitted 
that  we  have  a  noisy 
crew ;  but  I  do  not 
use  this  word  "noisy" 
as  meaning  a  dis- 
agreeable sound. 
Far  from  it.  We 

must      Consider      the    Black-backed  Three-toed  Woodpecker. 

surroundings,       the 

time,  the  circumstances  ;  it  is  the  result  we  anticipate 
when  a  witness  of  what  transpires  ;  it  is  a  pleasant 
sound,  a  meaning-full  sound,  and  never  a  meaning*- 
less  noise.  Not,  as  that  shallow  townsman  said, 
"more  noise  than  music,"  but  always,  if  we  are  our- 

16* 


1 86  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

selves  in  touch  with  nature,  more  musical  than 
noisy.  Take  away  the  little  downy  woodpecker  from 
the  trees  about  your  house,  and  before  a  year  has 
passed  you  will  find  that  you  have  lost  something 
that  was  far  more  valuable  than  you  thought  To 
the  townsman,  "more  noise  than  music,"  perhaps; 
but  to  the  countryman,  dear  as  the  voice  of  a  loved 
one. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

WHERE    RUNS   THE   TIDE. 

I  HAVE  not  far  to  go  to  reach  the  river,  and 
through  the  meadow  ditches  the  tide  flows  even 
nearer  to  my  home.  Herein  I  count  it  good  luck, 
for  from  March  to  November,  either  on  the  mud 
laid  bare  by  the  outgoing  tide  or  along  the  sandy 
shore  of  the  river,  I  can  always  find  one  or  more 
representatives  of  the  snipe,  plover,  and  sand-piper 
families,  those  long-legged  birds  that  teeter  along 
the  water's  edge,  closely  imitating  the  ripples,  with 
which  they  are  in  constant  company.  Except  two 
or  three  very  small  species  which  are  not  gregarious 
in  their  habits,  these  birds  appear  to  interest  sports- 
men only,  who  see  in  them  mere  "  gobbets  of  veni- 
son" that  more  or  less  tax  their  skill  to  murder.  As 
game-birds  they  have  been  as  much  written  about 
as  shot  at,  and  it  seems  to  be  the  principal  business 
of  some  weekly  journals  to  announce  the  good  for- 
tune of  Tom,  Dick,  or  Harry,  who  killed  twenty 
yellow-legs  at  a  shot,  while  nothing  is  said  about  the 
twenty  more  that,  wounded,  escape  the  gunner  only 

187 


1 88  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

to  drag  out  a  few  days  of  torture-full  existence.  On 
the  other  hand,  I  am  not  aware  of  any  one  having 
considered  them  in  the  light  of  song-birds,  or,  lack- 
ing melody,  as  ornaments  to  the  waterscape  by  rea- 
son of  their  grace.  And  I  am  reminded  here  that 
these  sand-pipers  and  allied  birds  are  not  all  strictly 
aquatic  in  their  habits.  There  are  some  that  go  to 
swell  the  great  army  of  exceptions,  one  large  enough 
to  give  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  the  army  of  rules, 
if  they  ever  come  into  conflict.  As  we  in  all  things 
desire  variety,  there  is  in  the  cries,  as  they  are  called, 
of  the  plover  and  the  sand-piper  music  that  seems 
peculiarly  fitting  to  the  localities  where  we  hear  it 
It  is  exhilarating  to  see  a  hundred  or  more  tattlers 
just  skimming  the  sparkling  waves,  or  darting  errati- 
cally through  the  air,  or  running  with  marvellous 
speed  over  the  bared  sand-bars,  and  all  the  while 
uttering  that  clear  peet — peet-weet  which  is  as  truly 
musical  and  satisfying  to  the  bird-lover  as  any  of 
the  more  elaborate  songs  of  inland  birds. 

In  watching  these  birds,  too,  we  are  brought  to 
the  wildest  and  only  unchanged  spots  of  the  coun- 
try. It  is  even  now  possible  to  look  at  the  water 
and  the  bared  sand-bar,  and  see  precisely  what  those 
strange  and  brute-like  men  saw  who  walked  to  and 
fro  along  our  river-shore  thousands  of  years  ago, 
when  the  Great  Ice  Age  was  slipping  back  from 
the  then  present  into  geological  history, — see  water 
that  centuries  later  was  travelled  by  the  Indian's 
canoe,  and  land  that  bore  the  footprints  of  wild  life 
which  have  long  since  disappeared;  land  that  was 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  189 

pressed  by  the  moccasin  of  the  Leriape,  a  hunter  as 
fierce  as  the  wildest  creature  that  ever  roamed  the 
river-valley.  These  pretty  sand-pipers  teetering 
along  shore,  singing  blithely  in  their  simple  way,  are 
so  completely  a  part  of  all  that  is  left  of  nature,  un- 
changed and  unchangeable,  that  he  who  loves  an 
outing  misses  much  if  he  fails,  as  the  seasons  roll  by, 
to  see  and  hear  them. 

Above  the  roar  of  the  March  winds,  and  in  spite 
of  a  penetrating  cold,  I  seldom  fail  to  hear  each 
returning  year  the  clear,  shrill  call  of  the  killdeer 
plover ;  and  when  that  fife-like  kill-dee,  kill-dee 
sounds  in  the  gusty  air,  I  am  sure  that  the  first  snipe 
of  the  season  are  cowering  in  the  sheltered  pools  of 
the  lower  meadows.  Very  cautiously  I  draw  near  to 
the  familiar  "likely  places,"  and  stop  suddenly  as  I 
hear  the  well-known  "scaip"  and  see  the  bird  twist 
and  dart  away,  perhaps  only  for  a  few  yards  ;  more 
likely  on  and  on,  upward  and  still  upward  until  a 
mere  speck  in  the  sky,  then  gone,  then  reappearing, 
and  at  last,  after  a  second  tarrying  in  mid-air,  it 
dives  headlong  like  a  cannon-shot  to  the  earth,  and, 
turning  instantly,  alights  daintily  on  its  feet  and 
probes  the  soft  mud  as  unconcernedly  as  if  such  a 
brute  as  man  had  never  been  evolved.  You  may 
not  see  more  than  one  or  two  these  early  March 
mornings,  but  later  in  the  month  and  in  April  they 
are  more  abundant ;  and  while  you  may  pass  many 
by  that  run  from  you  and  skulk  in  the  long  grass, 
others — perhaps  fifty  or  more — will  get  up  before 
you  and  hurry  away,  not  one  of  them  making  the 


190  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

slightest  attempt  at  a  straight  line  of  flight.  I  once 
saw  them  in  such  abundance  that  my  well-trained 
dog  forgot  himself  and,  leaping  forward,  caught  one 
in  his  paws.  But  this  bird  is  most  entertaining 
when  seen  singly,  for  then  only  can  it  be  watched 
with  entire  satisfaction,  though  to  do  this  a  field- 
glass  is  needed.  They  do  not  appear  to  be  afraid 
of  the  open  flats,  yet  never  venture  far  from  cover, 
and  run  to  and  from  it  in  a  manner  not  unlike  the 
little  sora  or  common  rail-bird.  I  have  had  many 
an  opportunity  to  shoot  them  while  they  were  stand- 
ing exposed  on  the  mud,  at  low  tide ;  and  as  the 
daylight  fades  and  the  grass,  water,  and  mud  are 
obscured  until  they  seem  as  one  great  uniform  ex- 
panse, the  snipe  grow  less  timid  ;  they  flit  and  flirt 
over  the  flats,  and  squeak  and  make  merry  after  a 
fashion.  All  in  all,  it  has  been  a  pleasure  to  watch 
them,  and  one  that  I  would  gladly  repeat  if  the 
birds  remained ;  but  by  the  middle  of  May,  or  earlier, 
they  have  gone,  except  here  and  there  an  isolated 
pair  that  remain  to  breed. 

Very  different  in  every  way  and  in  all  respects 
lovable  is  the  little  spotted  sand-piper  that  every  one 
about  here  knows  as  the  teeter-tiltup,  and  a  more 
descriptive  name  was  never  coined.  I  look  for 
pleasant  weather  when  the  "teeter"  comes  ;  for  April 
is  well  advanced,  the  water-side  plants  are  growing 
fast,  the  nesting  bluebird's  warble  is  in  the  air,  song- 
sparrows  are  merry,  and  now,  just  above  the  waves 
of  the  sparkling  river,  I  see  them — the  first  pair  of  the 
season — hurrying  along  from  point  to  point  up  stream, 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE. 


191 


as  if  looking  for  their  home  of  last  summer ;  and 
the  pretty  peet-weet,  so  constantly  repeated,  gives 
evidence  of  their  satisfaction  at  being  here  once 
more.  But  these  birds  by  no  means  confine  them- 
selves to  the  river-shore  ;  they  wander  inland  until 
every  pond,  every  brook,  every  spring-hole  has  been 
found,  and,  once  discovered,  these  places  are  sure 
to  be  immediately  occupied,  Amid  such  surround- 


Teeter  Tiltup. 

ings  I  have  ever  found  them,  except  when  on  brief 
visits  or  at  unseasonable  times,  and  in  early  spring 
I  always  look  forward  with  pleasure  to  their  coming, 
for  they  are  to  the  water  what  swallows  are  to  the 
air.  They  fill  a  place  that  no  other  bird  can  fill, 
and  leave  a  painful  void  when  they  depart  They 
are  not,  so  to  speak,  exasperating  transient  visitors, 
but  come  to  stay,  and  are  the  life  of  the  place 


192  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

where  they  decide  to  nest  About  the  little  hollow 
in  the  grass  where  their  precious  eggs  are  laid  they 
hover  with  amusing  solicitude,  and  their  anxiety  is 
unbounded  when  the  eggs  are  hatched,  for  fear  that 
some  mishap  will  occur  to  the  funny  little  "teeters" 
that  for  some  hours  have  enough  to  do  to  keep  upon 
their  legs.  They  learn  quickly  by  imitation,  how- 
ever, and  can  soon  run  through  the  thickest  growths 
of  grass  with  amazing  rapidity. 

Of  the  whole  group  of  wading  birds,  this  spotted 
sand-piper,  the  pretty  "teeter,"  is  the  only  one  that 
even  approaches  familiarity  with  the  belongings  of 
man.  It  alone  comes  within  hailing  distance  of  the 
house,  and,  when  encouraged,  will  even  balance  it- 
self on  the  edge  of  the  long  water-trough  in  the 
barn-yard.  It  finds  a  convenient  feeding-ground  in 
the  little,  babbling  brook  that  leisurely  trickles  from 
the  spring-house,  is  hardly  disturbed  when  the  milk- 
maid trips  down  the  path  from  the  kitchen,  and  hops 
but  to  another  stone  or  two  if  she  pauses  with  her 
armload  of  pans.  I  used  to  think  that  the  sand- 
pipers knew  this  young  woman  and  looked  upon  her 
as  half  a  friend  ;  I  know  that  she  often  watched 
these  lively,  light-footed  birds  and  longed  to  possess 
as  airy  a  step  as  theirs.  No  matter  how  much  we 
may  preach  of  the  eternal  fitness  of  things,  this 
water-bird  seems  never  out  of  place.  It  will  jour- 
ney up  and  down  our  old  worm-fences,  perching  on 
every  outstanding  post,  and  yet  lose  nothing  of  the 
grace  that  it  shows  when  resting  on  a  slippery, 
shining  stone  just  peeping  above  the  rippled  sur- 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  193 

face  of  the  river.  Nor  does  its  simple  song  of  but 
two  notes  prove  merely  an  interruption  to  our  up- 
land melody.  On  the  contrary,  it  is  sweet  enough 
to  cause  us  to  stop  and  listen  for  its  repetition.  A 
Scotchman  with  more  prejudice  than  love  of  truth 
has  called  our  sand-piper  a  mere  harsh  twitterer. 
'He  may  have  got  this  impression  from  a  book, 
but  it  is  evident  that  he  never  heard  the  "  teeters," 
as  I  have  heard  them,  a  dozen  or  more,  whis- 
tling their  love-calls  in  the  early  hours  of  a  bright 
May  morning ;  he  never  had  the  bird  come  close 
to  his  door-step  and  sing  as  it  poised  on  stone 
after  stone  of  the  brook  that  babbled  by.  If  so, 
he  could  not  deny  that  there  was  music  in  the 
bird's  heart,  and,  when  there,  it  is  also  on  the 
tongue. 

How  very  different  is  the  solitary  sand-piper ! 
though  why  called  so  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conjecture. 
It,  too,  comes  after  all  traces  of  winter  are  obliter- 
ated, but  it  does  not  tarry  on  the  river-shore.  It  is 
especially  fond  of  pools  of  rain-water  in  newly 
ploughed  fields,  and  I  have  known  it  to  stay  about 
these  until  all  the  water  had  disappeared,  when  it 
would  move  to  a  grassy  field  through  which  ran  a 
little  brook.  Here  also  the  bird  is  happy,  judging 
from  its  actions,  though  it  utters  no  call  or  unpreten- 
tious song  when  undisturbed,  or,  if  so,  in  so  low  and 
indistinct  a  tone  as  to  have  escaped  me.  Open 
glades  surrounded  by  dense  woods  also  attract  it, 
and  its  flight-power  is  often  beautifully  exhibited  in 
its  upward,  twisting  progress  between  tall  trees  ;  and 
i  n  17 


194 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


then  with  what  lightning-like  rapidity  it  disappears  ! 
but  if  you  remain  where  you  were  when  you  flushed 
the  bird,  the  chances  are  that  you  will  see  it  return, 
darting  down  with  a  snipe-like  whir  of  the  wings, 
and  the  moment  it  touches  the  ground  raising  them 
until  they  meet  over  its  back,  as  if  to  ascertain 
whether  they  are  still  in  working  order  after  such 


Solitary  Sand-piper. 

violent  exercise.  It  is  a  pretty  act  and  an  invariable 
one.  Then  it  commences  to  feed.  I  once  saw  a 
pin-tail  duck  go  through  the  same  performance. 

Though  I  appear  to  stand  alone  in  the  opinion,  I 
am  convinced  that  they  sometimes  breed  here. 
There  is  no  possibility  of  confounding  this  species 
with  any  other ;  the  suggestion  of  a  professional 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  195 

bird-man  that  I  mistook  a  "teeter's"  nest  for  that  of 
a  solitary  sand-piper  is  absurd.  Let  me  add  that  I 
once  shot  a  female  "  solitary"  and  found  in  it  an 
egg  with  the  shell  well  advanced,  and  it  is  ridicu- 
lous to  suppose  that  such  an  egg  could  have  been 
carried  to  the  Arctic  circle  for  depositing ;  nor  shall 
I  ever  forget  the  distress  caused  to  its  mate  by  my 
act  That  pair  of  birds,  which  had  been  staying 
about  the  mucky  meadow  for  a  week  or  more,  in- 
tended to  nest  as  near  as  the  mountains  of  Pennsyl- 
vania, to  which  they  could  have  flown  in  half  a  day ; 
and,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  a  pair  of  solitary 
sand-pipers  once  had  their  nest  near  a  spring  in  the 
old  White  Horse  woods. 

In  the  upland  plover — which,  by  the  way,  is  not 
a  plover,  but  a  sand-piper — we  have  an  entertaining 
inland  species  which  practically  deserted  this  neigh- 
borhood forty  years  ago,  although  previous  to  that 
time  it  was  very  abundant,  particularly  in  August, 
when  the  birds  that  had  been  bred  in  the  higher, 
rolling  Pennsylvania  grass  fields  collected  here  pre- 
vious to  their  autumnal  migratorial  flight. 

Across  the  river,  and  not  far  away  either,  these 
birds  may  be  seen  during  the  entire  summer,  and  if 
they  are  always  as  attractive  as  I  once  found  them 
among  the  Lehigh  hills,  I  have  excellent  reason  to 
be  envious.  The  prosy  exploration  of  an  old  In- 
dian jasper  quarry  was  being  most  perfunctorily 
done,  when  I  heard  the  soft,  pleading  whistle  of  a 
grass  plover,  and  I  spent  half  that  morning  trying 
to  discover  the  bird.  The  ground  here  was  thickly 


196  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

strewn  with  broken  masses  of  parti-colored  jasper 
with  thrifty  grass  growing  between  them.  Not 
having  seen  these  birds  in  numbers  for  some  time,  I 
laid  my  archaeology  aside,  as  I  do  upon  every  pre- 
text, and  went  plover-hunting.  Up  hill  and  down 
dale  I  followed  that  persuasive  whistle,  but  not  until 
the  afternoon  was  well  advanced  did  I  have  a  chance 
to  plainly  see  the  birds.  It  was  not,  as  I  at  first 
supposed,  the  call  of  one  bird  that  I  had  heard,  but 
of  many  ;  and  after  I  found  my  way  back  to  camp, 
I  learned  that  these  plovers  were  abundant  in  every 
direction.  Through  the  day  they  had  eluded  me,  but 
they  did  not  later,  and  I  often  saw  them  running  over 
bare  ground  or  perched  on  the  top  rail  of  a  fence  or 
on  a  stone  wall,  but  never  in  a  tree.  Towards  the 
cool  of  the  evening  they  would  come  boldly  out,  and, 
while  not  noisy,  whistled  now  and  then.  There  is  a 
peculiarity  about  their  call  that  is  not  easily  described. 
It  is  as  hollow,  un-bird-like,  and  weird  as  the  far-away 
hooting  of  an  owl ;  yet  it  is  musical  and  one  does 
not  tire  of  it.  As  I  sat  by  my  camp-fire,  smoking, 
this  call  brought  up  a  somewhat  sobering  train  of 
thought,  yet  not  an  unpleasant  one.  As  the  night 
wore  on  and  the  light  of  the  camp  grew  brighter, 
the  plovers  retired  as  if  frightened  by  the  unusual 
sight,  and  I  did  not  hear  them  again  until  towards 
the  "wee  sma'  "  hours,  when  the  fire  was  dead,  my 
associates  asleep,  and  through  the  canvas  of  our 
tent  came  the  mournful  plaint  of  the  little  red  owl 
and  what  I  took  to  be  the  whistle  of  these  same  up- 
land birds  passing  by,  but  far  overhead.  At  this 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE, 


time  the  sound  was  even  more  unlike  the  ordinary 
cries  or  calls  of  birds  than  in  the  early  evening,  and 
was  calculated  to  cause  the  superstitious  to  weave 
strange  stories  of  ghost-like  visitations. 

At  home  I  have  often  heard  these  plovers'  tremu- 
lous notes,  charged  with  superabundant  sweetness, 
when  the  birds  were  on  their  way  to  other  lands. 
Heard  them,  but  they  were  so  far  in  cloud-land  that 
I  never  saw  them. 


Yellow-legged  Tattler. 

According  to  my  experience  with  the  feathered 
folk  about  where  I  live,  the  yellow-leg  is  pre-emi- 
nently a  song-bird.  The  time  when  I  eagerly  pur- 
sued it  along  the  river-shore  and  brought  it  down 
to  the  mud-flats  by  cunning  imitation  of  its  call  has 
gone  by,  but  as  long  as  life  remains  I  will  never 
tire  of  watching  it  about  the  ponds,  nor  forego  the 
pleasure  of  listening  to  its  flute-like  whistle  as  it  passes 
to  and  fro  between  the  river  and  the  meadows. 


2OO  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

These  river-shore  birds  come  early  in  the  spring, 
but  do  not  tarry,  and  not  until  late  in  July  and 
throughout  August  do  they  become  prominent 
Then  the  long  mud-flats  that  are  exposed  at  low  tide 
offer  them  excellent  feeding-grounds,  and  during 
the  early  morning  they  are  often  very  numerous 
and  noisy ;  but  knowing  to  what  dangers  they  are 
exposed,  they  soon  take  refuge  in  the  tall  grass, 
the  wild  rice,  or  wherever  there  is  shelter,  and  the 
chances  are  that  you  will  see  but  little  of  them. 
Above  tide-water  their  tactics  change,  and  they  will 
effectually  hide  themselves  among  stones  on  the 
little  islands  in  the  river.  I  have  known  them  to 
squat  among  pebbles  and  remain  motionless  until  I 
was  well  away,  when  they  would  sail  off  and  be 
quickly  out  of  reach  ;  but  I  always  knew  of  their 
going,  though  my  back  was  turned,  as  their  mellow, 
flute-like  whistle — phee-oou,  a  dozen  times  repeated 
— was  unmistakable  and  ever  loud  enough  to  be 
heard  above  the  roar  of  the  water  as  it  hurried  over 
its  rocky  bed.  When  you  have  once  learned  this 
note  it  is  never  forgotten  ;  and  I  doubt  if  you  can 
hear  it,  or  a  successful  imitation,  without  calling  up 
some  pretty  view  of  land  and  water,  shade  and  sun- 
shine, with  a  line  of  yellow-legs  flitting  across  the 
summer  sky. 

During  the  summer  of  1895  there  was  a  protracted 
and  disastrous  drought.  The  near-by  mill-pond  was 
shrunken  to  a  mere  pool  and  the  shallow  head-waters 
failed  to  cover  the  long,  narrow  mud-bank,  above 
which  protruded  the  trunks  of  trees  felled  nearly  a 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  201 

century  ago.  One  spring  on  the  pond's  bank  still 
maintained  its  flow  and  sent  a  little  trickling  stream 
across  the  mud,  into  which  it  wore  a  narrow,  tortu- 
ous channel.  It  was  a  sad,  forlorn,  forsaken-looking 
place,  and  yet  for  nearly  a  month  it  was  inviting 
above  all  else  in  the  neighborhood  by  reason  of  the 
birds  attracted  to  it.  Among  these  was  a  yellow-leg 
that  became  quite  tame  and  allowed  of  such  near 
approach  that  I  could  study  its  movements  to  great 
advantage.  It  was  never  in  a  hurry,  yet  on  occa- 
sion could  run  with  great  rapidity ;  it  was  never  de- 
sirous of  flying,  yet  had  unrestricted  use  of  its  wings. 
It  was  seldom  silent,  and  even  when  hunting  the 
mud-flats,  probing  the  soft  ground  almost  every  mo- 
ment, it  would  indulge  in  that  pleasant  whistling  so 
familiar  to  those  who  have  rambled  along  our  river- 
shore  in  the  early  mornings  of  late  summer  days. 
For  many  days  I  feasted  my  ears  on  the  music  and 
my  eyes  on  the  graceful  ways  of  this  "game" -bird, 
which  was  too  near  and  dear  to  me,  at  least,  to  ever 
think  of  its  destruction. 

It  remained  until  the  early  autumn  rains  brought 
the  pond  up  to  its  proper  level,  and  even  then  ap- 
peared loath  to  depart,  for  I  saw  it  on  the  narrow 
beach  between  the  dense  shrubbery  and  the  deep 
water  while  passing  in  my  boat  one  morning  early 
in  October.  It  seemed  at  that  time  to  have  sud- 
denly grown  wild  again,  and,  whistling  with  unusual 
vigor,  it  finally  rose  high  in  the  air  and  directed  its 
flight  towards  the  river.  I  watched  it  until  a  mere 
speck  in  the  western  sky,  and  when  lost  to  view  I 


2O2 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


felt  that  I  was  saying  good-by  forever  to  a  valued 
friend. 

A  day  on  Duck  Island, — a  September  day  when 
there  is  the  suggestiveness  of  decay  over  all  the  up- 
lands ;  almost  a  funereal  outlook ;  for  the  summer, 
though  not  dead,  is  slowly  dying.  However,  there 
is,  as  yet,  but  little  evidence  of  this  on  the  island 
shores.  The  tides  have  kept  the  herbage  green,  and 
there  is  no  lack  of  glitter  along  the  little  ridges 


Sanderling. 

where  the  currents  have  heaped  the  sand  into  curi- 
ously curved  lines.  The  scattered  relics  of  the  last 
great  freshet — branches  of  old  trees  torn  from  the 
mountain-side — still  hold  their  places,  and  about 
each  is  a  little  pool  that  steadily  grows  less  with 
the  ebbing  and  is  refilled  again  by  the  returning 
tide  before  it  has  wasted  quite  away.  Here,  when 
the  island  is  abandoned  by  all  after  the  fishermen 
have  dried  their  nets  for  the  season,  I  am  wont  to 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE. 


203 


seek  a  comfortable  seat  and  watch  the  ever-shifting 
scenes,  and  am  only  disappointed  when  the  sandy 
reaches  next  the  water's  edge  are  not  made  brighter 
by  the  fairest,  the  liveliest,  and,  I  fancy,  the  most 
intelligent  of  all  our  wading  birds,  the  piping  plovers, 
sanderlings,  and  "  peeps."  Everywhere  I  see  ex- 
amples of  big  brains  in  little  bodies  ;  and  just  as 
the  ant  is  far  ahead  of  the  beetle  and  the  gaudy 


"Peep." 


butterfly,  so,  it  appears  to  me,  these  little  beach 
birds  are  quicker-witted  than  the  curlews,  godwits, 
and  bull-heads,  those  larger  representatives  of  these 
groups.  This  is  not  a  matter  of  the  slightest  im- 
portance, however.  The  fact  that  "  peeps"  and 
plovers  are  here  at  times,  and  that  I  can  see  them, 
alone  concerns  me.  They  are  birds  that  leave  music 
behind  them  in  the  trackless  air  as  surely  as  their 
little  footprints  can  be  traced  in  the  sand  over  which 


204  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

they  run,  and  this  is  all-sufficient  merit.      "Peeps" 
and  plovers  !     There  is  music  in  the  very  names. 

Through  the  thick,  steamy  air  above  the  river  we 
catch  the  flashing  of  white  light  that  comes  and  goes, 
— now  near,  now  far ;  and  then,  when  we  seem  to 
have  lost  it  altogether,  it  again  breaks  suddenly  upon 
us,  and  a  flock  of  wee,  winsome  birds,  moving  with 
the  precision  of  an  army,  alights  upon  the  sand. 
Instantly  the  birds  break  ranks  and  each  whistles  its 
gladness  to  be  free.  They  are  piping  plovers,  and 
never  have  birds  piped  their  happiness  more  plainly. 
They  seem  to  be  forever  on  the  run  when  not  on  the 
wing,  and  the  abruptness  with  which  they  can  turn  a 
corner  is  realized  when  we  follow  the  course  of  their 
footprints.  No  matter  how  rapidly  they  may  be 
going,  they  detect  the  slightest  movements  of  grains 
of  sand,  and  knowing  that  something  good  to  eat  is 
beneath,  they  probe  for  and  swallow  the  morsels, 
large  or  small,  while  still  running,  apparently  at 
random.  They  flush  hundreds  of  spotted  tiger- 
beetles  that  go  whizzing  off  in  a  direct  course,  and  I 
have  often  wondered  if  the  plovers  overtook  them. 
If  so,  their  speed  as  pedestrians  is  wonderful ;  and 
when  their  throats  are  clear  they  whistle.  This  con- 
sists of  one  or  two  clear  notes  with  many  variations, 
yet  all  readily  ascribable  to  the  same  bird,  whether 
one  sees  it  or  not.  It  is  distinctly  a  watery,  river-side 
sound  that  is  wholly  unlike  the  song  of  any  inland 
bird, — that  is,  we  have  so  long  associated  it  with  the 
sea-coast  and  the  wilder  reaches  of  our  river-shores 
that  it  has  grown  to  be  as  familiar  as  the  breaking  of 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  205 

the  waves  upon  the  beach  :  the  spirit,  as  it  were,  of 
the  plover's  haunts  expressed  in  music.  Nuttall  has 
attempted  to  describe  this  bird's  most  marked  cries 
as  pee-voo — pai-voo,  but  no  words  can  give  an  ade- 
quate idea  of  the  strange,  almost  sad,  faint  echo  that 
remains  with  us  when  a  number  of  these  birds,  dash- 
ing away  in  fright,  give  utterance  to  their  forebodings. 
It  is  as  wild,  as  lonely,  as  unearthly  as  the  wailing  of 
the  wind  through  the  rigging  of  a  storm-tossed  ship. 
And  yet,  in  this  river-valley,  sweeter  music  is  seldom 
heard  ;  music  to  which  we  more  willingly  listen  or 
more  sincerely  regret  when  the  last  flock  of  the 
season  passes  southward  for  the  winter. 

The  plovers  usually  find  that  the  island  is  not  a 
forsaken  feeding-ground  when  they  come  here  from 
up  or  down  the  river.  There  is  generally  some 
wading  bird  or  other  ahead  of  them, — a  sanderling, 
it  may  be,  or  half  a  dozen  of  them,  or  a  killdeer, 
and  often  a  great  flock  of  little  sand-pipers,  or 
"  peeps"  as  they  are  frequently  called.  The  sander- 
lings  are  never  numerous,  and  usually  accompany 
flocks  of  other  birds,  but,  like  an  occasional  phala- 
rope  swimming  off  shore, — a  much  rarer  bird, — it 
is  sometimes  alone.  I  well  remember  the  last  time 
I  saw  these  birds.  It  was  on  a  cool,  windy  Septem- 
ber morning,  with  a  dash  of  frost  in  the  air.  The 
sparkle  of  the  river  was  too  bright  for  one  to  look 
directly  at  it,  and  I  shaded  my  eyes  as  I  walked 
down  the  west  shore  of  the  island.  Suddenly  I 
heard  the  notes  of  some  beach  birds,  and,  looking 
up,  saw  half  a  dozen  of  them  coming  towards  me. 

18 


206  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

I  squatted  on  the  sand,  and  my  old  gray  suit  that 
years  ago  lost  all  semblance  to  newness  well  dis- 
guised me.  I  did  not  move  a  muscle.  To  the  birds 
I  was  no  more  than  a  stump  or  a  bunch  of  grass. 
They  settled  within  a  few  feet  of  me,  and,  standing 
still,  looked  intently  at  the  river.  Were  they  think- 
ing that  it  was  time  to  migrate?  The  birds  were 
sanderlings. 

I  have  been  surprised  to  find  how  far  inland  the 
little  sand-pipers  or  "  peeps"  come  at  times,  both  in 
spring  and  autumn,  though  they  are  recorded  by 
Warren  as  found  about  ponds  and  small  streams  in 
all  parts  of  Pennsylvania.  I  have  always  associated 
them  with  the  main  watercourses  and  the  sea-shore, 
and  particularly,  in  my  own  neighborhood,  with  the 
Delaware  River's  immediate  shores,  and  was,  till 
lately,  under  the  impression  that  they  were  not  due 
until  August.  In  April,  1892,  I  journeyed  in  a 
wagon  into  Lehigh  County,  Pennsylvania,  and,  al- 
though there  was  but  the  vaguest  promise  of  spring- 
like weather,  was  rash  enough  to  sleep  on  the 
ground  in  a  tent.  The  ostensible  purpose  was  ar- 
chaeology, which,  however,  I  let  my  companion  look 
after.  I  was  interested  in  the  ornithological  features 
of  the  season,  and  although  for  some  purposes  a 
month  too  late,  I  was  convinced  that  we  have  in 
these  hills  a  country  more  visited  by  northern  birds, 
in  winter,  than  is  generally  believed.  But  the  sand- 
pipers !  I  was  up  rather  early  on  the  morning  of 
the  23d,  and  going  to  the  brook  near  camp, — a 
stream  some  ten  feet  wide,  rapid  and  shallow, — I 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  207 

was  surprised  to  find  many  "  peeps"  in  the  grass  and 
along  the  banks  of  the  creek.  They  were  extremely 
active,  rather  wild,  and  appeared  to  obey  the  warn- 
ing calls  of  a  pair  of  killdeers  that  screamed  and 
screeched  and  were  altogether  rude  and  boister- 
ous, particularly  when,  stooping  to  wash  my  face,  I 
slipped  and  fell  headlong  into  the  water.  Perhaps 
they  were  frightened,  but  I  fancied  that  they  were 
jeering  me,  and  my  temper  was  not  improved. 
After  I  had  regained  my  equilibrium  and  was  other- 
wise ready  for  an  outing,  I  went  to  look  for  the 
"  peeps,"  and  found  them  feeding  on  little  islands 
in  this  creek.  They  would  not  permit  a  very  near 
approach,  but  my  field-glass  solved  the  question  of 
their  identity.  The  next  day  there  was  a  moderate 
amount  of  sunshine,  and  my  companion  and  myself 
wandered  several  miles  from  camp,  at  one  place 
climbing  a  high  hill,  where  we  tarried  for  some  time 
enjoying  the  scenery,  which  was  beautiful.  Hills 
rose  above  hills,  and  at  our  feet  lay  a  wide  valley 
rich  with  warm  colors,  while  the  monotone  of  the 
wind  as  it  passed  through  the  leafless  trees  was  sel- 
dom broken,  save  by  a  song-sparrow  or  the  wild  cry 
of  a  wary  hawk.  While  seated  on  a  huge  project- 
ing mass  of  rock  in  the  middle  of  a  green  pasture, 
there  came  a  shadow  and  a  sound  that  stopped  our 
conversation.  Looking  up,  we  saw  a  flock  of 
"  peeps"  just  above  our  heads,  and,  though  it  may 
have  been  but  fancy  on  my  part,  they  seemed  to 
look  down  as  inquiringly  at  us  as  we  did  after  them 
until  lost  in  the  distance. 


2o8  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

The  "  peeps"  on  Duck  Island  are  always  enter- 
taining. They  have  less  musical  ability  than  piping 
plovers,  but  are  by  no  means  mute  ;  and  when  they 
wander  from  the  water's  edge  and  run  like  mice 
through  the  grass,  their  single  note  much  resembles 
the  squeaking  of  that  animal,  but  louder.  They  are 
fond  of  very  small  fish,  which  they  often  find  in  the 
little  pools  left  by  the  outgoing  tide  ;  but  these  birds 
show  to  most  advantage  when  they  keep  together ; 
when  they  feed,  as  a  close-ranked  company,  on  the 
sands  bared  by  wane  of  tide;  or  when,  taking 
alarm,  they  rise  in  the  air  as  one  bird  and  move 
here,  there,  backward  and  forward,  urged  by  a  com- 
mon impulse,  until  beyond  the  reach  of  unaided 
vision, — now  a  streak  of  shining,  snow-white  light, 
now  but  a  dark  line  on  the  horizon. 

A  word  more  concerning  the  wading  birds  of  the 
upper  Delaware.  The  increase  of  population,  the 
deforesting  of  countless  acres  of  land,  the  defile- 
ment of  the  river  water,  the  greed  of  brutes  yclept 
sportsmen,  and  the  building  of  houses  close  to  the 
shore,  to  say  nothing  of  steamboats  and  river-craft 
of  every  sort,  have  necessarily  resulted  in  great 
changes  in  our  avi-fauna.  It  is  strange  that  any 
bird  will  run  the  gauntlet  of  a  dozen  towns  to  find 
a  bit  of  wild  river-shore.  We  have,  besides  these 
that  I  have  mentioned,  other  water-birds,  but 
nowhere  and  at  no  time  are  they  abundant,  save 
when  a  violent  storm  temporarily  stays  their  migra- 
torial  progress  ;  yet  there  was  a  time  when  very  many 
of  our  larger  sand-pipers  and  other  birds,  now  con- 


WHERE  RUNS  THE  TIDE.  209 

fined  to  the  sea-coast,  wandered  up  the  river  to  the 
head  of  its  tidal  flow.  Earlier  books  concerning 
this  region  make  mention  of  this,  but  the  all-con- 
vincing evidence  comes  from  another  source.  Re- 
cent explorations  of  village  sites  of  the  one-time 
Delaware  Indians  have  disclosed  the  fact  that  cur- 
lews and  all  the  larger  species  once  penetrated  this 
far  inland  and  found  congenial  homes  where  at 
present  they  are  never  seen  ;  and  with  them  came 
many  a  swimming  bird  that  now  seldom  leaves  the 
bay.  In  the  ashes  of  camp-fires  that  have  been  cold 
for  centuries  are  still  preserved  unmistakable  evi- 
dences of  the  presence  in  Indian  times  of  many  a 
wild  bird  that,  wandering  along  the  river-shore,  or 
venturing  up  the  valleys  of  the  larger  creeks,  gave 
to  this  country — now  almost  desolate  at  times — a 
charm  that  the  rambler  seeks  in  vain  while  strolling 
along  the  sandy  beach  of  Duck  Island,  where  runs 
the  tide. 


18* 


CHAPTER   IX. 

A    FEW    FEATHERED    FIENDS. 

WHEN  I  showed  one  of  the  illustrations  of  this 
chapter  to  a  friend,  she  remarked,  "What 
a  fiend  !"  and  as  I  recall  all  the  hawks  and  owls 
that  I  have  seen,  it  is  a  question  whether  they  are 
not  all  more  or  less  fiendish.  Admitting  this,  it 
does  not  take  from  them  any  of  their  attractiveness ; 
on  the  contrary,  we  are  perhaps  even  drawn  towards 
them  because  of  it.  Cruelty  and  all  the  qualities 
that  we  desire  eliminated  from  human  nature  are 
secretly,  if  not  openly,  admired  when  exhibited  by 
the  lower  orders  of  creation. 

Birds  of  prey  are  features  of  the  winter  landscape. 
Not  that  they  are  absent  at  other  seasons  ;  but  with 
the  trees  in  full  foliage,  all  the  summer  birds  about, 
and  every  field,  wood,  and  meadow  packed  with 
fruit  and  flowers,  they  are  inconspicuous  in  com- 
parison with  the  days  of  snow-clad  fields,  bare  trees, 
and  open  meadows, — brown  where  the  snow  has 
melted  and  glittering  as  glass  where  ice  has  formed. 
At  such  a  time  not  a  rough-legged  or  sharp-shinned 

210 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  211 

hawk  can  move  without  detection,  and  its  telltale 
shadow  not  only  gives  us  timely  warning,  but  also 
many  a  timid  mouse  and  merry  sparrow.  As  a  mat- 
ter of  fact,  too,  hawks  are  really  much  more  abun- 
dant at  this  season,  and  probably  this  is  equally  true 
of  owls. 

Hawks  are  cowards ;  they  are  crafty ;  with  all 
their  beauty  and  skilful  flight  and  aerial  evolutions, 
they  never  risk  themselves  ;  they  do  not  prey  on 
creatures  that  can  resist  them.  In  these  respects 
they  bear  a  strong  resemblance  to  common  types  of 
humanity ;  their  meanness  is  a  well-focussed  photo- 
graph of  people  to  be  met  with  everywhere.  Did 
hawks  merely  kill  that  they  themselves  might  live, 
we  could  be  more  tolerant ;  but  with  what  fiendish 
pleasure  will  they  dash  through  a  flock  of  sparrows, 
perhaps  maiming  one  and  putting  all  in  abject  terror  ! 
Is  there  not  everything  that  is  despicable  in  the  shrill 
scream  of  a  hawk  after  it  has  caused  the  poor  spar- 
rows to  dash  like  frightened  sheep  along  the  weedy 
way,  or  when,  coming  suddenly  upon  the  tuneful 
white-throats,  as  they  mourn  amidst  the  ruins  of  a 
dead  summer,  it  disturbs  their  meditations  ? 

It  is  as  easy  to  catalogue  their  sins  as  to  pick  out 
the  flaws  in  your  neighbors,  but  in  either  case  it  is 
an  absurd  exhibition  of  self-righteousness  to  do  so. 
Hawks  eat  the  pretty  warblers,  and  these  warblers 
eat  insects  far  more  beautiful  than  themselves,  and 
these,  again,  or  some  of  them,  prey  on  still  smaller 
ones.  It  is  but  a  long  chain  of  destruction,  and 
man  need  not  set  himself  up  as  one  whit  better  than 


212  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

the  ignoble  hawk  or  skulking  owl  that  grabs  the 
young  birds  from  their  nest  in  spite  of  the  parents' 
protest.  Both  hawks  and  owls  show  their  true  char- 
acters with  no  attempt  at  deception,  and  could,  if 
we  would  but  learn,  teach  us  more  than  one  lesson 
worth  remembering. 

I  like  the  birds  of  prey.  It  is  easy  to  be  blind  to 
what  one  does  not  approve  of  and  accept  the  rest. 
It  shows  deplorable  weakness  not  to  be  able  to  do 
this.  It  is  necessary  in  other  matters  of  much  more 
importance,  so  why  not  practise  it  in  this  phase  of 
out-door  ornithology?  As  hunters  of  mice,  for  in- 
stance (nobody  cares  for  a  mouse),  let  us  observe  the 
hawks,  and  in  that  capacity  greet  with  pleasure  all 
that  cross  our  path,  be  they  large  or  small. 

I  have  said  that  hawks  are  winter  birds,  but  have 
qualified  the  statement.  Almost  the  first  to  appear 
in  any  number,  not  only  in  the  marshes,  but  also  in 
the  pasture  meadows  and  upland  fields,  is  the  beau- 
tiful harrier.  It  is  well  named,  for  no  other  bird 
more  effectually  harries  the  small  birds  of  the  bushes 
or  is  more  active  in  driving  to  the  fastnesses  of  the 
covered  runways  the  abundant  meadow-mice.  Nor 
does  it  usually  merely  frighten  birds  and  mammals, 
for  this  hawk  has  a  quick  eye  and  a  sure  grip,  and 
if  there  is  game  to  be  had,  it  never  goes  hungry. 
There  is  nothing  particularly  graceful  in  the  bird's 
movements  as  compared  with  other  hawks.  Indeed, 
it  often  flaps  its  wings  as  if  flying  were  tiresome, 
and  ordinarily  does  not  indulge  in  aerial  gymnas- 
tics. It  is  principally  because  these  hawks  are  large, 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS. 


213 


conspicuously  colored,  and  fly  near  the  ground  that 
we  observe  them  so  closely.  When,  in  early  autumn, 
as  we  are  thinking  of  other  things  or  perhaps  en- 
joying the  antics  of  sparrows  on  the  fence-posts, 


r 


Harrier. 


this  hawk,  with  wide-spreading  wings  noisily  flap- 
ping, rises  from  the  grass,  its  mere  size  proves  such 
a  novelty  that  we  forget  old-time  favorites ;  and 
again,  the  bird  suggests  wildness  and  every  other 
condition  foreign  to  our  tame  summers.  This  big- 


214  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

•ness  in  birds  counts  for  a  great  deal  with  the  ram- 
bler. It  pleases  us  as  does  the  first  glimpse  of  the 
mountains  after  a  long  journey  over  the  plains.  We 
are  ever  on  the  lookout  for  it,  whatever  the  time  of 
year,  whether  in  the  meadows  or  along  the  creek. 
No  matter  how  abundant  the  smaller  birds  may  be, 
we  are  always  delighted  to  see  a  great  blue  heron, 
the  less  graceful  night-heron,  or  even  a  homely 
bittern.  They  may  merely  fly  away  as  we  approach, 
but  they  are  big,  and  that  is  enough. 

The  harrier  has  no  favorite  haunts  here  during  its 
winter  sojourn.  Years  ago,  when  the  meadows  were 
less  a  thoroughfare  than  now,  and  had  not  lost  so 
much  of  their  original  wildness,  these  hawks  were 
residents,  but  of  late  they  do  not  appear  until  the 
reed-birds  begin  to  gather  in  the  marshes  prepara- 
tory to  their  south-bound  migratory  flight.  At  this 
time  they  are  on  the  watch  for  birds  crippled  by  the 
gunners,  and  would  be  far  more  common,  I  believe, 
but  for  the  infamous  practice  of  the  bird-butchers, 
who  shoot  at  them  on  every  occasion. 

When,  as  often  happens,  the  winter  passes  without 
snow,  the  upland  fields  afford  the  harriers  excellent 
hunting-grounds.  Every  fourth  or  fifth  adjoining 
field  has  its  bird,  and  I  have  noticed  during  the 
present  winter — 1895-96 — how  much  they  hunt  on 
foot  I  have  never  associated  hawks  with  pedestri- 
anism,  but  I  can  see  some  reason  for  it  in  this  case, 
as  their  prey  (the  mice)  are  extraordinarily  abundant, 
— a  positive  curse  that  has  arisen  through  the  stu- 
pidity of  the  farmers,  and  it  serves  them  right  Of 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  215 

all  hopeless  specimens  of  humanity,  an  obstinate, 
ignorant  farmer  takes  the  lead.  By  the  aid  of  a 
field-glass  I  could  easily  follow  the  movements  of  a 
harrier  as  it  was  walking  about  a  level  field.  At 
such  a  time  this  hawk  is  anything  but  graceful,  the 
walk  often  breaking  into  a  series  of  hops,  and  some- 
times what  might  be  called  a  flying  jump,  the  bird 
expanding  its  wings  and  going  forward  three  or 
four  feet  and  sometimes  as  many  yards.  This  par- 
ticular bird  quartered  the  ground  very  well,  going 
to  and  fro,  or  from  side  to  side,  like  a  well-trained 
setter  after  quails.  After  much  crawling  and  exer- 
cise of  patience,  I  once  surprised  a  harrier  in  the 
act  of  tearing  the  frozen  roof  from  a  mouse's  bur- 
row. When  it  discovered  me  it  cackled  somewhat 
after  the  manner  of  a  guinea-fowl,  and  flew  off 
with  a  rapid  movement  unlike  its  ordinary  flight. 
If  these  hawks  worked  in  concert  when  ground- 
hunting,  they  could  do  their  work  much  more  effec- 
tively, but  I  have  never  seen  them  associated.  The 
beautiful  blue-gray  males — the  old  birds — occasion- 
ally appear  in  March,  at  which  time  their  greater 
activity,  more  conspicuous  coloring,  and  suppressed 
kitten-like  cry  make  them  a  prominent  feature  of  the 
landscape. 

It  may  be  supposed  from  the  little  I  have  said 
of  this  mild-mannered  mouse-hunter  that  it  is  a  long 
remove  from  the  so-called  "noble"  falcon,  and  so  it 
is  ;  but  if  you  muffle  the  jaws  of  a  steel  trap  and 
capture  one  without  doing  it  an  injury,  and  then 
study  it  at  close  quarters,  you  will  find  spirit  enough 


216  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

to  meet  all  your  ideas  as  to  nobility  among  birds. 
Its  loss  of  liberty  arouses  every  dormant  element 
of  its  nature,  and  it  will  assert  itself  very  forcibly 
if  opportunity  offers.  This  bird  resents  any  approach 
to  familiarity,  and  woe  betide  you  if  its  sharp  talons 
are  fixed  in  your  hand.  That  it  is  courageous 
has  been  often  demonstrated.  I  speak  from  expe- 
rience. Nuttall  says  that  the  young  are  readily 
tamed. 

It  would  be  of  interest  to  know  whether,  in  addi- 
tion to  the  guttural  kek-kek,  like  the  chatter  of  a 
king-rail,  which  all  large  hawks  utter  when  surprised 
or  wounded,  the  harriers  and  other  species  of  equal 
size  have  a  series  of  cries,  alarm-notes,  signals,  and 
low-toned  coaxings,  such  as  are  characteristic  of 
other  birds.  We  know  that  the  crow  has  a  con- 
siderable vocabulary  ;  but  in  winter,  with  the  excep- 
tion of  the  red-tail,  which  is  often  very  noisy,  our 
hawks  do  not  seem  to  express  their  emotions  by 
voice  as  well  as  by  action,  though  I  suspect  that  at 
times  they  mutter  a  good  deal  to  themselves  and  to 
one  another.  On  several  occasions  I  have  heard,  or 
thought  I  did,  sounds  that  I  attributed  to  one  of 
these  harriers,  as  if  talking  to  itself;  and,  while 
concealed,  have  heard  no  end  of  strange  mutterings 
from  captive  goshawks,  winter  falcons,  and  black 
hawks, — a  low  clicking  sound,  rapidly  uttered  and 
with  extensive  variations,  somewhat  like  the  chatter 
of  a  hen  when  she  is  said  to  "want  to  lay."  Con- 
siderable difficulty  is  experienced  in  determining 
points  like  these  because  of  the  untamability  of 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  217 

hawks  when  captured  late  in  life  ;  under  such  cir- 
cumstances the  difference  in  their  surroundings  may 
tend  to  make  them  taciturn.  If  we  could  gain  their 
confidence,  we  might  possibly  be  able  to  see  them 
in  a  new  light  As  it  is,  we  have  a  comparatively 
tame  species  in  the  fish-hawks,  and  by  lingering 
about  their  nests  will  very  quickly  discover  that  they 
are  incessant  "talkers." 

As  regards  harriers,  they  are  extremely  cautious, 
if  not  very  wild,  birds,  and  probably  not  more  than 
once  in  a  winter  will  a  closer  view  of  them  be  had 
than  that  afforded  by  their  zigzag  flight  over  the 
fields.  They  can  certainly  do  the  harrying  act  to 
perfection.  First  one  wing  and  then  the  other  will 
be  tipped  downward  until  the  top  of  the  tall  grass 
is  lightly  brushed  and  birds  and  mice  hurry  and 
skurry  in  every  direction  ;  but  the  instant  a  victim  is 
sighted  there  are  exhibited  a  precision  and  an  im- 
petuosity that  leave  to  those  who  love  such  traits 
nothing  to  be  desired. 

Materially  reduce  the  size  and  vastly  increase  the 
activity  and  a  correct  idea  is  presented  of  that 
thoroughly  murderous  yet  most  attractive  bird,  the 
sharp-shinned  hawk.  Not  a  "  noble"  hawk  accord- 
ing to  the  ideas  of  falconers  in  days  gone  by,  but 
there  never  was  a  bird  of  prey  that  could  do  its 
particular  work  any  better  or  with  a  less  percentage 
of  failure.  I  once  saw  a  sharp-shinned  hawk  strike 
a  barn-swallow,  and  was  then  fully  satisfied  of  the 
absolute  perfection  of  its  peculiar  powers.  These 
small  falcons  leave  their  nesting-sites  in  the  more 
K  19 


2l8 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


remote  country  and  appear  among  us  at  the  time 
of,  or  just  before,  the  falling  of  the  leaves  and  arrival 
of  the  tree-sparrows  and  blue  snow-birds.  Some- 
times I  find  them  on  the  south  hill-side  in  October, 
when  the  leaves  have  been  discolored  by  frost,  and 
are  brown,  ruddy,  or  brightly  red,  but  still  thick-set 


Sharp-shinned  Hawk. 


as  in  summer,  and  among  them  many  Peabody- 
birds.  It  is  not  strange  that  these  wandering  hawks 
should  discover  such  places,  and  what  a  disturbance 
is  created  when  they  dash  by  and  carry  off  a  victim  ! 
How  the  other  birds  struggle  to  reach  the  greenbrier 
thickets,  tumbling  rather  than  flying,  as  though  so 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  219 

many  cripples  with  their  canes  and  crutches  !  A 
lighting  up  of  the  woods  or  a  generally  enlarged 
outlook  from  any  point  of  view  puts  the  sharp- 
shinned  hawk  in  excellent  humor,  if  such  a  cruel 
creature  be  susceptible  to  any  of  the  gentler  emo- 
tions. As  I  pass  along  the  gully  on  the  first  frosty 
morning,  when  the  ground  does  not  yield  to  the  foot 
and  the  notes  of  the  song-sparrow  come  rolling  down 
the  brook  as  frozen  drops  of  music,  I  always  ex- 
pect to  see  a  flash  of  "dark  lightning"  and  to  hear, 
perhaps,  the  " whistle!"  of  wings;  for  the  sharp- 
shinned  hawk  is  ever  prowling  here,  entering  the 
ravine  at  its  head  and  leaving  it  where  it  opens  to 
the  meadows. 

These  birds  appear  to  have  a  deal  of  method 
in  their  apparent  madness.  Not  long  ago  I  no- 
ticed one  perched  on  a  post  of  a  grape-trellis.  I 
watched  it  for  some  time  and  found  that  it  had 
designs  upon  some  recently  hatched  chickens  which 
were  then  closely  huddled  under  their  mother's 
wings.  The  bird  was  promptly  driven  off  The 
next  day  it  returned  at  exactly  the  same  time.  I 
placed  a  steel  trap  on  its  perch,  but  this  was  recog- 
nized as  such,  or  at  any  rate  as  something  to  be 
avoided,  and  it  took  its  stand  near  by.  It  suc- 
ceeded in  getting  only  one  of  the  young  chickens, 
being  twice,  in  my  presence,  completely  baffled  by 
the  courageous  and  well-planned  acts  of  the  old 
hen. 

These  sharp-shinned  hawks  are  wild,  of  course, 
like  all  their  species,  but  they  occasionally  venture 


220  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

very  near  our  houses,  particularly  when  we  are  pes- 
tered with  English  sparrows  nesting  at  every  possible 
coigne  of  vantage.  So  far  as  the  sparrows  are  con- 
cerned, we  welcome  these  hawks  ;  but  they  are  not 
always  sufficiently  discriminating,  and  I  once  saw 
one  strike  at  a  caged  canary  that  had  been  placed 
at  an  open  window.  The  fright  killed  the  canary, 
and  the  hawk  was  seriously  injured  by  violent  con- 
tact with  the  wires  of  the  cage,  which  were  much 
bent.  Does  this  and  like  incidents  indicate  defec- 
tive vision  ?  It  is  not  unusual  for  this  bird  to  dash 
with  all  its  speed  at  tree-sparrows  at  the  moment  of 
their  disappearance  in  a  dense  greenbrier  thicket 
impenetrable  to  the  hawk,  and  after  such  a  rash 
endeavor  the  bird  is  often  feather-torn  to  a  degree 
that  renders  it  almost  helpless.  Ordinarily  we  are 
apt  to  look  upon  the  smaller  birds  of  prey  as  perfect 
in  mechanism  and  possessing  excellent  judgment, 
but  close  observation  discloses  the  fact  that  there  are 
limitations  in  the  latter  respect,  and  that  failure  is  not 
an  unknown  quantity  in  their  lives. 

Cooper's  hawk  is  nearly  related  to  the  preceding, 
but  is  a  little  larger.  Its  habits  are  said  to  be  the 
same,  but  I  have  not  found  them  so.  It  is  about  all 
summer,  and  also  in  April  and  May ;  during  these 
months,  however,  it  keeps  out.  of  sight,  though  near 
enough  to  the  farmer's  house  to  be  posted  as  to  the 
chicken-coops.  It  will  hide  within  twenty  yards  of 
the  kitchen  door,  in  a  cedar,  and  take  a  chicken  at  a 
certain  hour  day  after  day,  until  discovered  by  mere 
accident.  The  dash  of  the  hawk,  the  commotion 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS. 


221 


among  the  fowls,  the  barking  of  old  Towser, — all 
take  place  with  regularity,  but  too  rapidly  for  the 
young  hunter  who  stands  ready  with  his  gun.  These 
evidences  of  cunning  and  the  constant  circumven- 
tion of  man's  elaborate  schemes  for  the  hawk's  de- 
struction make  delightful  reading  in  the  study  of 
animal  intelligence.  There  is  no  danger  of  chickens 
becoming  extinct,  so  here's  to  the  success  of  Cooper's 
hawk  ! 

In  little  patches,  growing  where  the  soil  is  poor 


Cooper's  Hawk. 

and  sandy,  there  flourishes  what  I  have  always 
known  as  Indian  grass.  It  becomes  light  straw 
color  in  early  autumn,  and,  unless  flattened  by  a 
heavy  fall  of  snow,  sways  in  the  wind  and  stands  up- 
right, a  little,  frost-defying  tropical  jungle.  Choosing, 
appropriately,  on  each  occasion  a  typical  Indian 
summer  day,  I  have  for  years  been  in  the  habit  of 

19* 


222  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

creeping  into  the  middle  of  one  of  the  larger  patches 
of  this  grass,  stepping  carefully  so  as  to  leave  no  track 
behind  me,  and,  bending  down  sufficient  of  it  for  a 
mattress,  would  lie  flat  upon  my  back  and  look  at 
the  sky.  I  always  took  care  to  have  sufficient  stand- 
ing grass  to  shield  me,  and  more  than  once  enjoyed 
lying  very  still  while  members  of  the  family  or  some 
of  the  farm  hands  were  passing  by,  wondering  what 
had  become  of  me.  Those  were  days  when  rheu- 
matism was  not  a  bugbear,  and  at  such  times  I 
loved,  above  all  other  bird  adventures,  to  watch  the 
circling  red-tailed  hawks  that  hour  after  hour  wheeled 
round  and  round  far  overhead  and  occasionally  sent 
earthward  a  wild  scream  that  seemed  like  a  message. 
Kee-aah — kee-aah !  A  wild  sound,  if  ever  there 
was  one  ;  such  a  cry  as  an  Indian  or  a  panther  at 
bay  might  be  expected  to  utter,  but  which  would 
never  be  attributed  to  a  bird, — not  even  this  bold 
hawk.  Still,  it  is  not  so  far-reaching  as  the  screech 
or  demoniac  yell  of  a  great  horned  or  a  barn-owl, 
which,  however,  is  now  but  seldom  heard. 

This  study  of  the  birds  above  us  never  becomes 
monotonous.  I  have  seen  five  red-tailed  hawks 
circling  at  the  same  time  and  always  keeping  at 
about  the  same  distance  from  one  another.  They 
described  an  inner  and  four  outer  circles,  slightly 
overlapping.  As  if  by  mutual  agreement,  the  birds 
would  at  times  rise  higher  and  higher,  until  they 
seemed  but  mere  black  dots  in  the  light  blue  beyond  ; 
then  for  a  moment  they  would  appear  to  be  motion- 
less in  mid-air,  after  which,  as  gradually  as  they  as- 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS. 


223 


cended,  the  hawks  would  return,  the  circles  growing 
wider  and  wider  until  I  could  see  each  bird  dis- 
tinctly and  hear  their  wild  laughter  as  they  dallied 
with  a  passing  cloud.  Then  other  birds  would  often 
pass  by.  At  any  moment  the  sky  might  be  streaked 
with  crooked  lines  of 
ducks ;  migrating  birds 
would  pass  at  times, — 
mere  moving  dots  that 
could  scarcely  be  dis- 
tinguished ;  and  when 
some  of  the  restless 
songsters  of  the  bushes 
flew  leisurely  by,  even 
stopping  a  second  to 
look  at  me,  I  gained  an 
insight  into  the  bird- 
world  as  novel  as  it  was 
entertaining.  I  have 
had  song-sparrows  and 
chickadees  come  so 
close  to  my  grassy  re- 
treat that  I  could  lit- 
erally look  them  in  the 
eyes,  and  not  until  I  Red-tailed  Hawk, 

waved    my   arms    about 

did  they  realize  what  I  really  was.  I  have  ventured 
here  even  as  late  as  December,  foolhardy  as  it  was, 
and  revelled  in  winter  sunshine,  one  of  the  chief 
glories  of  our  changing  seasons.  But  what  of  the 
red-tails  ?  They  are  not  forever  in  the  sky. 


\ 


224  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

These  hawks,  which  outnumber  all  the  other  large 
species,  appear  in  abundance  in  time  to  greet  the 
nut-dropping  winds  of  October,  and  they  stay  with 
us  until  April.  At  least  one  pair  may  be  found 
nesting  near  by  and  remaining  all  summer,  but 
there  is  then  too  much  to  look  after  to  be  concerned 
about  them,  and  they  never  seem  to  intrude  upon 
our  notice.  While  to  be  found  if  searched  for, 
weeks  may  pass  without  our  seeing  or  hearing  them. 
How  true  this  is  of  any  one  form  of  life  !  We  may 
almost  forget  its  existence  until  some  specialist  calls 
attention  to  it,  and  then  we  see  little  else  until  his 
influence  has  given  place  to  more  generalized  con- 
siderations of  wild  life  that,  as  a  whole,  concern  us 
more  nearly.  The  mere  presence  of  a  herpetologist 
lately  filled  the  whole  hill-side  with  salamanders, 
and  I  found  then,  as  I  had  before,  species  in,  and 
not  merely  near,  water,  which  have  been  unwisely 
stated  to  be  strictly  terrestrial  because  the  observer 
had  only  found  them  under  such  conditions.  To 
formulate  fixed  rules  limiting  the  actions  or  habitat 
of  any  wild  creature  is  simply  absurd.  How  could 
evolution  operate  if  there  really  was  such  fixity  of 
habit  ?  As  well  say  of  a  salamander  that  it  will  die 
if  caught  in  the  rain  as  assert  that  it  is  never  seen  in 
a  brook. 

In  the  depth  of  winter — one  of  the  old-fashioned 
kind,  with  snow  a  foot  deep  and  the  earth  and  water 
alike  one  solid  rock — the  red-tails  are  often  deprived 
of  their  daily  allowance  of  mice,  and  then  I  have 
seen  them  seeking  the  shelter  of  the  south  hill-side, 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  225 

where,  with  feathers  all  outstanding,  they  appeared 
to  be  almost  twice  their  real  size.  At  such  a  time 
they  are  apt  to  be  stupid  and  easy  of  approach, 
which  suggests  that  their  senses  have  been  dulled  by 
hunger,  and  then  they  are  not  averse  to  a  chicken 
diet,  but  full-grown  hens  can  generally  fight  them 
off!  Why  do  they  always  strike  at  them  and  not 
molest  the  roosters  ?  Is  this  true  ?  It  is  a  common 
impression  in  my  neighborhood  and  borne  out  by 
what  I  have  noticed,  which,  however,  is  more  likely 
to  be  mere  coincidence  than  evidence. 

The  peak  of  a  hay-stack  is  a  favorite  outlook  with 
them  when  the  ground  is  covered  with  snow  and 
only  bushes  and  fence-posts  vary  the  landscape.  I 
have  seen  one  of  these  hawks  dust  away  the  snow 
with  its  wings  and  crouch  down  on  the  hay  so  as 
to  be  almost  undistinguishable  from  it.  Was  this 
done  for  warmth?  As  every  stack  has  a  thriving 
colony  of  mice  at  its  base,  and  as  their  tracks  show 
that  these  creatures  come  out  at  times,  may  there 
not  be  a  reason  for  the  hawk's  resting-place  other 
than  that  it  is  comfortable  ? 

There  is  another  large  hawk  that  is  always  a  winter 
visitor,  but  which,  my  records  show,  some  thirty 
years  ago  used  to  come  earlier  and  stay  later  than  it 
does  now.  Locally  these  birds  are  known  as  marsh- 
hawks,  because  on  their  arrival,  as  an  old  gunner 
told  me,  "  they  put  for  the  meadows  and  gather  the 
rail-birds  that  couldn't  skip  after  the  first  frost," 
which  information  comprises  a  whole  chapter  of 
local  ornithology  in  very  few  words.  I  have  always 
p 


226 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


heard  them  called  "  feather-boots."  Though  the 
great  contrast  in  the  colors  of  its  plumage,  which 
vary  from  dirty  white  to  black,  is  deceptive,  and  has 
seemed  to  many  to  indicate  different  species,  there 
were  practical  observers  in  my  early  days  who 
doubted  this,  and  one  old  shooter,  who  was  of  an  in- 
quiring frame  of  mind,  called  my  attention  to  a 

row  of  nine  nailed  to 
his  barn  door,  that  well 
illustrated  the  grada- 
tions from  approaching 
albinism  to  the  most 
distinctly  melanistic 
form.  Of  all  its  names, 
perhaps  because  the 
first  that  I  heard  given 
it,  I  prefer  "  feather- 
boots,"  and  as  such  I 
shall  always  know  it. 

Though  we  read  a 
good  deal  about  the 
black  hawk's  sluggish- 
ness, its  labored  flight, 
and  its  "ignoble"  ways 
in  general,  old  "  feather- 
boots"  is  no  fool,  and  when  in  full  black,  with  no 
quills  lost  from  its  wings  or  tail, — the  only  atten- 
tion that  the  bird  receives  at  the  hands  of  man  is  in 
the  way  of  persecution  by  loafers, — it  has  a  de- 
cidedly noble  aspect ;  and  given  an  open  field,  with 
a  fair  chance  for  the  mouse,  "  feather-boots"  will 


Rough-legged  Falcon. 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  227 

show  winged  activity  that  is  as  creditable  as  it  is 
necessary,  for  a  frightened  mouse  is  never  a  laggard, 
and  can  tax  a  hawk's  ingenuity  and  skill  by  dodging, 
if  not  by  a  straight-away  course. 

The  black  hawk,  or  rough-legged  falcon  as  it  is 
called  in  the  books,  is  strictly  a  "local"  bird.  I 
have  known  one  to  take  position  on  a  particular  tree 
and  apparently  never  wander  any  great  distance 
from  it,  content,  so  to  speak,  with  the  mice  that 
came  its  way  (for  these  birds  seem  to  feed  upon  noth- 
ing else)  and  letting  all  others  go.  As  features  of  the 
winter  landscape  they  are  as  valuable,  if  we  want 
wild  life  represented,  as  the  sportive  snow-birds  just 
outside  our  window,  and  are  equally  harmless.  I 
well  remember  one  of  these  hawks,  of  fullest  black 
plumage, — it  might  have  sat  as  the  original  of  Wil- 
son's illustration, — that  I  saw  daily  from  my  west 
windows  for  two  whole  months,  and  when  the  sun 
was  setting,  "feather-boots's"  thoughtful  pose,  sil- 
houetted against  a  crimson  background,  was  a  charm- 
ing sight.  At  dusk  it  went  the  rounds  of  the 
meadow  ditches  a-mousing,  I  suppose,  but  was 
always  back  at  its  post  in  the  early  morning.  More 
than  many  others  I  have  seen,  it  was  an  owlish  bird, 
but  none  the  less,  when  it  left  us — shot  by  some 
"collector,"  perhaps — we  all  greatly  missed  it. 

Though  the  black  hawk  may  be  slow,  even  when 
dinner  is  at  stake,  this  trait  cannot  be  imputed  to 
our  common,  all-the-year-round,  half  tame  and  often 
playful  sparrow-hawk.  It  is  a  wicked  rascal,  to  be 
sure,  when  employed  in  killing  birds,  but  it  can  turn 


228 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


so  quickly  to  the  righteousness  of  mouse-murder 
that  we  do  not  think  of  the  slaughtered  song-spar- 
row, and  clap  our  hands  with  delight  when  the  gay 
little  falcon  hovers  over  the  field  or  darts  off,  light 
of  wing  as  any  swallow,  screaming  keety  /  keety ! 
keety  !  at  the  top  of  its  voice.  I  never  heard  of  one 
dashing  at  the  bird  on  a  silly  woman's  bonnet,  but 


it  is  plucky  and  mischievous  enough  to  do  it,  and 
more's  the  pity  that  this  does  not  often  happen, 
to  the  dismay  of  such  women  and  the  disgust  of 
those  who  pay  the  bonnet  bills. 

There  are  plenty  of  hollows  in  the  old  apple-trees, 
and  these  are  occupied  by  great-crested  flycatchers, 
Carolina  wrens,  and  even  robins  and  an  occasional 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  229 

bluebird  ;  but  the  sparrow-hawk  has  knowledge  of 
every  available  hollow  in  the  scattered  mid-field 
trees,  and  in  one  of  these  it  lives  all  summer.  Big 
brown  grasshoppers — the  "  tobacco-spitters"  of  boy- 
hood days — are  usually  large  enough  game  for  it 
during  the  warm  weather,  and  it  finds  them  as  easily 
as  turkeys  do  the  big  black  crickets  ;  but  it  will  sail 
leisurely  over  ploughed  ground,  such  as  a  cornfield 
in  May,  and  carry  off  food  of  many  kinds,  even  to 
the  little  brown  snake  that  it  finds  basking  in  the 
hot  sun.  I  have  seen  it  give  chase  to  a  chipmunk, 
and  then  there  was  a  pretty  exhibition  of  speed 
along  the  top  rail  of  the  old  worm-fence  ;  but,  until 
after  two  or  three  killing  frosts,  this  little  hawk  de- 
pends largely  upon  insects,  and  afterwards,  if  the 
supply  is  sufficient,  on  mice.  Although  evidence 
of  bird-murder  is  not  usually  found  about  its  roomy 
nest  in  a  hollow  tree,  still,  the  name  sparrow-hawk 
is  not  misleading.  Would  that  it  were  a  matter  of 
English  sparrows  exclusively.  Then  might  we  re- 
joice ! 

Owls  among  birds,  like  bats  among  mammals, 
have  always  attracted  much  attention,  but,  because 
of  their  nocturnal  and  crepuscular  habits,  are  far 
from  rightly  understood.  The  owl,  like  the  bat, 
figures  extensively  in  general  literature,  and  as  a 
result,  the  popular  mind  has  become  familiarized 
with  a  creature  very  unlike  the  real  bird,  which  is 
neither  as  nocturnal  as  is  stated,  as  wise  as  is  be- 
lieved, nor  as  black  as  it  is  painted.  Like  all  birds 
of  prey,  there  is  a  repulsive  side  to  its  character, 

20 


230  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

but  this  is  not  always  the  one  presented  to  us,  nor 
indeed  often  the  visible  one,  and  the  rambler  who 
takes  a  quiet  stroll  in  the  fields  at  even-tide,  or 
wanders  farther  away  in  the  moonlight,  will  be  af- 
forded no  end  of  entertainment  from  owls  both  large 
and  small,  if,  happily,  that  pest  in  many  a  community, 
the  taxidermist,  has  not  exterminated  these  emi- 


Long-eared  Owl. 

nently  useful  birds  for  the  purpose  of  adorning  bar- 
rooms and  barber  shops. 

I  have  seen  nine  species  of  owls  either  on  my  farm 
or  within  easy  walking  distance  of  it ;  two  of  these 
— the  snowy  and  the  hawk-owl — but  once,  though 
the  former  have  been  frequently  killed  along  our 
Jersey  coast  and  inland.  That  I  found  the  hawk- 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  231 

owl  years  ago  was  proved  by  a  careful  comparison 
with  Audubon's  plate  and  description.  Years  after- 
wards a  second  specimen  was  sent  from  this  neigh- 
borhood to  Philadelphia  to  the  late  Mr.  Cassin,  who 
identified  it.  The  barn-owl  'is  a  resident  here  and 
has  been  for  many  years  ;  the  cat-owl,  or  long-eared 
owl,  was  common  before  the  woods  were  cut  off,  the 
swamps  cleared,  and  one  pretty  bit  of  country  con- 
verted into  a  desert  that  needs  the  refuse  of  a  large 
town  to  keep  it  tolerably  green.  The  marsh-owl  is  a 
migratory  bird,  and  has  resided  for  years  in  the  lower 
marsh  meadows.  The  barred  owl  is  a  stranger  rarely 
seen  now,  and  only  in  late  autumn  and  winter.  The 
saw-whet  owl  is  a  winter  visitor,  but  has  been  found 
in  the  back  swamps,  three  miles  from  here,  through- 
out the  year, — a  southern  colony  of  a  northern  bird. 
The  great  horned  owl  has  been  almost  entirely  driven 
off  by  the  reckless  deforesting  of  the  country.  A 
few  still  come  and  go  during  the  winter,  but  at  every 
opportunity  are  shot  by  some  farmer  that  his  name 
may  appear  in  the  local  paper. 

When  the  meadows  were  as  wild  as  they  are  now 
tame  there  was  a  colony  of  marsh-owls  that  stayed 
in  one  rather  circumscribed  area  and  shaped  their 
habits  in  accordance  with  their  surroundings.  They 
nested,  for  instance,  not  on  the  ground,  but  in  the 
cavernous  hollows  of  the  old  pollards  and  scattered 
sycamores.  This  was  done  to  avoid  the  destruction 
of  their  eggs  or  young,  for  the  tides  varied,  and  light 
freshets  frequently  followed  unusually  heavy  or  pro- 
tracted rains.  In  other  words,  they  saw  fit  to  stay 


232  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

in  one  place  all  the  year,  and  thereby  showed  their 
sense.  Besides  these  there  was  the  irregularly  annual 
flight  of  those  owls  that  appeared  not  only  in  this 
trackless  wilderness  of  wild  rice,  bulrushes,  and  quick- 
sands, but  in  all  the  surrounding  country. 

It  may  be  presumed,  from  the  fact  that  it  often 


Saw-whet  Owl. 


pounces  on  a  mouse  long  before  sunset,  and  also 
from  the  manner  of  its  flight  when  flushed,  that  the 
marsh-owl  can  see  pretty  well  by  daylight;  but  it 
does  not  like  being  disturbed  during  the  day,  and 
will  skulk  like  a  wounded  bird  rather  than  leave 
the  grass.  One  that  I  long  held  in  captivity  usu- 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  235 

ally  stood  in  a  corner  of  the  room  with  its  face  to 
the  wall,  but  if  forced  away,  would  sprawl  on  the 
floor  and  extend  its  wings,  as  if  trying  to  conceal 
itself  by  blending  with  the  colors  of  the  carpet, 
and  similar  tactics  are  no  doubt  adopted  by  the 
wild  bird,  for  in  localities  where  we  are  positive 
that  they  are  plentiful  it  is  at  times  impossible  to 
find  them  ;  yet  later,  in  the  gloaming,  they  suddenly 
appear,  and  fly  to  and  fro,  bat-like,  over  the  very 
ground  that  had  been  previously  carefully  examined. 
Usually,  in  the  marshes,  they  fly  just  above  the  vege- 
tation, but  in  such  a  quiet  and  erratic  way  that  one 
can  scarcely  distinguish  them.  In  winter,  particu- 
larly, they  frequent  the  upland  fields,  and  it  is  rather 
startling,  while  walking  across  lots  after  sunset,  to 
have  one  of  these  birds  flap  its  broad  wings  directly 
in  front  of  you  and  then  go  bouncing  off  in  an  ab- 
surd way ;  one  moment  lost  to  view,  when  near  the 
ground,  and  then  looming  up  larger  than  life  as  it 
flies  between  you  and  the  faint,  flickering  light  of 
the  sunset  sky. 

Barred  owls  were  common  enough  in  the  days  of 
our  grandfathers,  but  the  encroachments  of  towns 
and  the  cutting  up  of  farms  into  truck  patches 
have  caused  these,  like  all  the  larger  and  more  con- 
spicuous birds,  to  withdraw  into  wilder  regions.  Yet 
they  do  appear  at  times.  Following  the  river,  they 
have  nature  beneath  them  as  they  fly,  and  avoid 
towns  by  taking  zigzag  courses.  Here  and  there, 
principally  along  our  creeks,  a  few  sad  remnants  of 
primitive  glory  still  remain,  and  amid  these  they 


236  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

linger  for  a  few  days.  Their  ordinary  food  is  likely 
to  be  scarce,  especially  in  midwinter,  and  conse- 
quently the  poultry  yards  are  raided.  This,  of 
course,  results  in  an  early  termination  of  the  barred 
owl's  career.  This  bird  and  the  barn-owl  are  both 
locally  known  as  monkey  owls,  and  many  a  wonder- 
ful statement  concerning  "owlology,"  which  the  old 
hunters,  who  know  better,  never  take  the  trouble  to 
correct,  gets  into  our  village  newspapers.  Too  often 
the  resemblance  to  a  monkey  is  more  apparent  in 
the  teller  of  these  strange  stories  than  in  the  bird 
that  gives  rise  to  them. 

I  have  already  mentioned  the  saw-whet  owl  as 
being  a  resident  bird  ;  at  least  it  was  ten  years  ago, 
if  not  so  still.  They  have  been  found  breeding  in 
Eastern  Pennsylvania,  and,  unless  I  am  very  much 
mistaken,  I  saw  one  flying  across  a  narrow  ravine  in 
Bucks  County,  Pennsylvania,  in  September,  1892. 
This  species  is  said  to  be  nocturnal  in  its  habits,  but 
here  let  me  quote  Mr.  Cram  on  this  point.  He 
writes,  "As  to  the  saw- whet  owls,  they  are  fairly 
common  about  here  [Southern  New  Hampshire]  and 
I  hear  them  frequently  in  the  spring.  The  one  this 
illustration  was  made  from  was  perched  on  a  limb  in 
broad  sunlight,  and  had  a  partly  eaten  short-tailed 
shrew  beside  him.  This  was  about  the  middle  of 
the  afternoon,  and  from  all  appearances  the  shrew 
had  not  been  killed  longer  ago  than  that  morning ; 
so  I  think  these  birds  must  occasionally  hunt  by 
daylight.  My  own  experience  agrees  with  what  a 
hunter  and  trapper  told  me,  that  he  has  seen  them 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS.  237 

dash  into  a  flock  of  redpolls  with  as  much  vigor  and 
success  as  a  sparrow-hawk.  Sometimes,  in  summer, 
when  the  young  are  learning  to  fly,  they  seem  to  be 
everywhere  during  the  evening,  and  fly  about  one's 
head  as  fearlessly  as  bats." 

I  have  been  introduced  to  people  who  did  not 
like  the  little  red  owls,  and  I  did  not  care  to  con- 
tinue the  acquaintance.  I  have  known  farmers  who 
have  had  these  birds  shot,  and  as  a  result  have  suf- 


//'r/ 

Screech-owl. 

fered  loss  of  crops  through  the  devastation  of  super- 
abundant mice.  I  wish  they  had  gone  to  the  poor- 
house.  The  little  red  owl  is  cunning,  I  am  glad  to 
say,  and  often  ventures  into  the  very  midst  of  a 
town, — strange  fancy  ! — hiding  by  day  on  a  house- 
top, but  what  it  finds  to  eat  at  night  is  a  question. 
Not  house-top  tabbies,  more's  the  pity,  and  I  fear  the 
dove-cots  are  visited.  In  this  consists  the  so-called 


238  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

fiendish  side  of  the  little  screech-owl,  which  cannot 
be  concealed  in  the  town  owl ;  but  its  respectable 
cousins  in  the  country  are  content  with  mice,  and 
therein  lies  their  safety.  The  melancholy  cry  of 
this  bird  is  so  refined  that  it  scarcely  rouses  a  sad 
thought  in  us,  and  I  ask  no  better  prelude  to  retro- 
spection. 

The  iteration  of  the  leaf-cricket  on  an  August 
evening,  the  cry  of  toads  at  night  in  early  summer, 
and  the  gentle,  half-complaining  whoo-oo-o,  now  so 
low  as  to  be  scarcely  audible,  and  then  rising  to 
peevish  fretfulness, — these  sounds  bring  up  visions  of 
days  gone  by  when  the  world  about  me  was  more 
of  a  mystery  and  therefore  to  my  eyes  far  more 
beautiful  than  now.  Not  a  creature  then  but  was, 
in  my  imagination,  invested  with  qualities  that  I  have 
since  found  it  does  not  possess.  Every  little  owl 
then  was  as  an  eagle  and  the  easy  master  of  ven- 
turesome small  boys. 

Here  in  New  Jersey  the  snowy  owl  is  but  a  rare 
winter  visitor,  and  were  it  not  for  its  beautiful  plu- 
mage and  great  size,  would  not  attract  much  atten- 
tion. It  has,  when  here,  no  marked  characteristics 
that  make  it  essentially  different  from  other  owls, 
except,  of  course,  that  it  is  a  "day"  bird. 

Under  date  of  December  14,  1895,  Mr.  Cram 
writes,  "The  other  day,  as  I  stood  in  the  door,  look- 
ing north,  I  saw  an  Arctic  owl  flying  steadily  along 
over  the  meadows.  As  seen  against  the  dark  pine 
woods  it  appeared  perfectly  white.  It  alighted  for 
a  moment,  first  in  one  great  elm  and  then  another, 


A  FEW  FEATHERED  FIENDS. 


239 


and  then,  flying  northward,  disappeared  among  the 
pines.  I  generally  see  them  on  dark,  cloudy  days 
before  a  snow-storm,  but  remember  one  brilliantly 
clear  day  after  a  storm  in  March,  when  a  dozen 
or  more  passed  over,  scattering  along  at  no  great 
distance  from  each  other, 
some  within  fifty  yards  of 
the  ground  and  others  up 
perhaps  an  eighth  of  a  mile. 
In  that  bright  sunlight, 
against  the  dark-blue  sky, 
they  were  beautiful  beyond 
anything  I  remember  see- 
ing. .  .  .  On  one  occasion 
I  was  riding  along  a  back 
road,  when  a  snowy  owl 
that  seemed  to  have  been 
eating  something  in  the 
bushes,  started  up  and,  fly- 
ing about  our  heads,  actu- 
ally threatened  us  with  its 
claws." 

Mr.  Cram  adds  that  the 
taxidermists  offer  so  high  a 
price  for  these  birds  that 
gunners  make  a  business 

of  shooting  them,  and,  as  a  consequence,  they  are 
now  scarce.  There  will  be  deep  regret  in  the  future 
when  the  landscape  is  robbed  of  all  its  wilder  phases 
of  bird-life  and  the  imagination  called  upon  to 
supply  the  weird  cries  that  are  still  heard,  but  only 


Horned  Owl. 


240  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

as  we  wander  farther  and  farther  away  from  a  civil- 
ization whose  demerit  is  an  utter  disregard  of  the 
claims  that  wild  life  has  upon  the  world.  A  caged 
specimen  at  the  Zoo  is  a  poor  substitute  for  the 
superb  snowy  owl  that  occasionally  brightens  a  win- 
ter landscape. 


CHAPTER   X. 

WITH    THE   WINTER    BIRDS. 

"QEE  them  there?"  remarked  Miles  Overfield,  as 

O  he  pointed  eastward  and  skyward,  while  we 
were  standing  by  the  sole  remaining  traces  of  the 
original  forest,  three  enormous  beeches. 

" See  what?"  I  asked. 

"Them  dark  streaks,  lookin'  as  if  somebody  had 
scratched  the  sky  with  a  sharp  stick." 

"Yes,  I  see  them.     What  of  it?"  I  asked. 

"  You  said  you  were  goin'  on  a  tramp  to-morrow. 
If  you  do,  you'll  wade  through  a  snow-storm." 

And  so  it  proved.  Occasionally  we  do  find  a 
man  who  is  weather-wise.  The  night  long,  fine 
feathery  flakes  fell  silently  about  the  house  and  filled 
the  garden-path.  Over  the  fence  the  lesser  land- 
marks were  blotted  out,  but  the  runways  of  the 
meadow-mice  were  ridged  and  prominent,  and  an 
old  birds' -nest,  now  tenanted  by  the  vesper  mouse, 
was  as  Arctic  in  appearance  as  an  Eskimo's  home. 
Tufted  grasses  that  had  yielded  but  their  greenness 
to  the  frost  were  builded  yet  a  little  higher  with 
L  q  21  241 


242  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

tapering  crystal  spires.  Crowding  as  they  did  the 
uneven  fields  and  jostling  each  other  in  their  down- 
ward rush,  the  snow-flakes  made  no  sound.  The 
dry,  unyielding  leaves  bent  to  the  burdens  laid  upon 
them,  but  there  was  no  snapping  of  the  stems.  The 
trees  along  the  headlands  were  being  clothed  anew, 
but  as  silently  as  the  leaf-buds  break  their  bonds  in 
May.  The  brown,  frost-bitten  landscape  of  yester- 
day was  a  thing  of  the  past,  when,  before  the  sun 
rose  in  the  clouded  east,  I  ventured  out  of  doors. 

The  old  man's  prediction  was  already  verified, 
but,  not  content  with  the  steady  storming  through  a 
long  winter's  night,  the  snow  was  still  making  good 
what  Miles  Overfield  had  said.  Not  only  was  I  to 
wade  through  fallen  snow,  but  the  air  was  still  murky 
with  the  falling  flakes.  Miles' s  words  had  been. 
"You'll  wade  through  a  snow-storm."  The  smoke 
was  curling  from  his  chimney-top  as  I  passed,  and 
perhaps  he  was  muttering,  if  he  saw  me,  "  I  told 
him  so."  Miles  was  a  man  to  make  you  believe  in 
witchcraft 

It  is  well  that  the  world  is  not  forever  naked.  For 
many  a  month  there  had  been  the  bare  fields,  the 
leafy  and  now  open  woods,  the  grassy  meadows,  and 
the  weedy  pastures.  Now  for  a  change  !  The  ruins 
of  a  riotous  summer  were  mantled,  and  it  was  as  a 
new  world.  An  uncertain  foothold  is  not  conducive 
to  serenity  of  temper,  but  the  rambler  who  is  dis- 
turbed by  such  small  matters  should  let  his  more 
venturesome  brother  break  a  path  for  him.  I  was 
not  to  walk  to-day,  but  to  wade.  I  made  no  com- 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS. 


243 


plaint.  The  rugged  oaks,  with  deeply  wrinkled  bark 
and  huge  outstretching  arms,  laughed  at  the  storm. 
It  was  beneath  them  that  I  heard  the  first  sound  : 
a  mere  creaking  of  branches,  it  is  true,  but  it  was  as 
if  the  trees  were  making  merry.  A  slight  swaying 
of  uplifted  branches,  and  the  flakes  were  scattered, 
and  little  heaps  that  had  gathered  in  the  tree-tops 


Chickadee. 

came  tumbling  about  me.  Then  a  merry  sound 
indeed  began  ringing  through  the  woods.  Snow- 
birds and  chickadees  came  trooping  by  me,  and  with 
boundless  curiosity  stopped  and  chirped  and  won- 
dered. The  storm  had  no  terrors  for  them,  and 
never  a  thought  of  shelter  entered  their  heads.  I 
clapped  my  hands,  and  the  hollow  sound  sent  them, 


244  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

not  deeper  into  the  forest,  but  directly  overhead. 
As  I  followed  their  flight,  I  saw  why  they  had  sought 
the  open  country :  the  clouds  were  breaking,  and, 
while  I  looked,  the  sunshine  broke  over  the  woods, 
rushed  up  the  old  wood-road,  and  met  me  half-way 
under  the  old  oaks.  What  a  superb  sight !  A  flood 
of  sunshine  was  on  the  untrodden  snow.  The 
wreathed  branches  of  the  little  cedars,  the  sinuous 
growth  of  greenbrier  and  bittersweet,  muffled  in 
ermine,  and  sunshine,  merry  as  a  May  day,  glittering 
over  all. 

What  of  wild  life  at  such  a  time?  Would  the 
birds  come  back  ?  Would  the  timid  rabbit  venture 
abroad,  or  the  sly  weasel  dart  by  me  ?  There  ought 
to  be  so  much  life,  in  days  like  these  ;  but  this  is  no 
unhunted  country.  Shut  in  by  a  snow-storm,  it 
seems  a  wilderness  ;  but  the  crowing  cock  is  hard 
by,  and  the  watch-dog's  bark  reaches  its  outermost 
bounds.  No  mouse,  even,  may  show  itself,  but  the 
mice  are  here  ;  no  mink  may  clamber  to  the  snow's 
surface,  but  his  home  is  in  the  hill-side,  and  I  can 
wait  Here  come  the  birds  again,  a  dozen  noisy 
blue-jays.  How  well  they  suit  the  landscape  ! 

What,  is  the  jay  more  precious  than  the  lark, 
Because  his  feathers  are  more  beautiful  ? 

This  has  been  asked,  and  I  give  the  unexpected 
answer,  "  Yes,  by  far."  Neither  jay  nor  lark  is  much 
by  itself;  put  either  in  a  cage,  and  you  will  find  this 
true  enough.  Their  value  is  in  proportion  to  their 
being  in  place,  and  no  languid  lay  of  a  lark  would 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS. 


245 


chord  with  the  wild  wintriness  of  the  wood.  The 
jays  blended  well  with  the  gray  beech-trees,  although 
their  bright  feathers  were  as  blue  as  the  unclouded 
sky  above  them.  The  tree-tops  creaked  where 
branches  crossed,  giving  a  harsh  sound  for  other 
days,  but  a  wholesome  one  for  a  day  like  this  ;  and 
such,  too,  was  the  cry  of  the  jay.  The  lisping  tit- 


Blue-jay. 

mice  were  trivial  just  now,  and  belonged  to  sunny 
nooks  where  lingered  bits  of  green  and  perhaps  a 
dandelion  ;  but  how  grandly  the  jay's  bold  cry  rang 
through  the  wood  !  It  is  not  wholly  a  harsh  sound. 
There  is  a  trace  of  smoothness  now  and  then,  almost 
a  flute-like  tone,  and  the  cry,  as  a  whole,  I  translated 

21* 


246  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

"glorious,  glorious."  It  matters  nothing  how  far- 
fetched are  these  translations  of  bird-notes.  It  is  a 
pleasing  whim  of  all  our  out-door  men  that  leads  to 
no  misconceptions  in  scientific  ornithology. 

As  the  shadows  shortened  and  the  day  grew 
brighter,  there  were  other  loud-singing  birds  that 
took  the  places  left  by  the  restless  jays  ;  and  to  real- 
ize what  our  winter  birds  are,  one  must  hear  two  of 
them,  at  least, — the  crested  tit  and  the  Carolina  wren. 
Both  birds  are  small,  both  inconspicuously  colored, 
but  when  I  add  that  of  a  bright,  clear  winter  morn- 
ing their  cheery  whistle  may  be  heard  half  a  mile 
away,  you  will  understand  what  these  little  songsters 
really  are.  They  are  resident  birds,  and  there  is  not 
a  day  in  the  whole  year  when  you  may  not  hear 
them.  The  weather  is  never  so  depressing  that  the 
wren  has  no  heart  to  call  to  its  mate,  and  even  a 
November  sleet  will  not  quiet  the  tit,  albeit  it  has 
to  take  shelter  while  it  sings.  Above  the  songs  at 
sunrise,  on  a  bonny  June  day,  I  have  heard  them,  but 
at  no  time  is  their  singing  so  full  of  meaning  as  now 
in  midwinter.  It  can  call  us  out  even  from  before  an 
open  fire  and  tempt  us  to  an  outing  rather  than  con- 
tinue with  our  back-log  studies.  In  short,  no  winter 
day  can  be  gloomy  when  we  have  these  birds  about  us. 

Yet  another  delightful  feature  of  a  day  like  this 
is  that  of  the  sudden  appearance  of  birds.  Where 
they  were  during  the  storm  is  a  matter  of  doubt. 
Some  will  say,  roosting  in  the  cedars,  or  in  hollow 
trees,  or  in  any  sheltered  spot.  This  is  plausible, 
but  you  seldom  find  the  birds  when  you  go  to  these 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  247 

places.  To-day,  while,  all  unmindful  of  the  cold,  I 
stood  listening  to  the  wren  and  tit,  the  white-throated 
sparrows  came  by,  and  a  huge  flock  of  tree-sparrows, 
and  the  chickadees,  and  nuthatches.  Now  a  dozen 
or  more  birds  were  in  sight,  and  almost  in  reach. 
They  had  had  no  food  for  a  day  at  least,  yet  were 
not  downhearted,  judging  by  their  merry  twitterings. 
That  great  snow-storms  are  destructive  to  our  larger 
birds,  as  the  crows,  and  even  to  robins  and  black- 
birds, is  known,  and  how  it  happens  that  they  do 
not  at  such  times  fly  beyond  the  storm's  area  is  not 
readily  explained  ;  but  the  small  seed-eating  birds 
fare  pretty  well,  judging  from  appearances.  There 
was  a  lively  little  kinglet  to-day,  the  only  one  I  saw, 
that  peeped  into  every  uncovered  cranny  of  the 
bark  of  an  old  oak,  and  once,  I  know,  pulled  some- 
thing out  which  it  swallowed.  The  tall  weeds  that 
now  were  bent  with  snow  would  soon  stand  upright 
again,  and  then  the  seeds  that  still  were  held  intact 
would  be  found  by  the  busy  sparrows.  As  to  the 
white-throats,  or  Peabody-birds,  they  always  seemed 
too  lazy  to  eat. 

There  is  a  bit  of  comedy  at  the  conclusion  of  a 
snow-storm  that  had  best  be  witnessed  from  a  safe 
distance.  This  is  the  slipping  of  the  heaps  that  have 
been  lodging  on  the  branches.  They  drove  me  into 
the  open  meadow.  Snow-flakes  are  trifles,  even 
when  very  abundant,  but  snow-masses  have  to  be 
seriously  considered.  A  blinding  avalanche  that 
carries  away  your  hat  and  fills  your  eyes  and  ears 
makes  others  laugh,  but  you  fail  to  appreciate  the 


248  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

fun.  I  hurried  to  the  open  ground,  and  found  a 
broad  ditch  that  must  be  crossed.  By  chance  a 
bared  spot  showed  me  where  to  pass,  and  it  was  a 
piece  of  great  good  fortune  that  I  had  chosen  the 
path  I  did.  A  bubbling  spring  here  had  defied  all 
the  efforts  of  frost  to  hide  it,  and  looking  down  into 
the  blue-black  waters  I  found  a  little  world  as  active 
as  ever  in  midsummer.  Green  grasses  waved,  sway- 
ing gently  to  and  fro,  as  the  June  breezes  bend  the 
growing  grain,  and  a  few  hardy  fishes  were  astir. 
From  the  depths  of  the  pool,  disturbed  by  the  long 
staff  I  carried,  a  spotted  frog  peeped  out.  Here, 
then,  was  variety.  Typical  winter  in  every  direction, 
looking  off;  summer  in  all  its  glory,  looking  down. 
Many  such  spring  pools  are  scenes  of  active  life  the 
winter  long,  but  only  the  hunter  and  the  fisherman 
know  about  them.  One  old  man,  a  turtle-hunter, 
led  me,  years  ago,  to  such  a  pool  as  this,  and  pointed 
out  how  even  the  larger  fish  often  took  refuge  in 
them  and  that  here  he  had  sometimes  found  the 
largest  snappers  that  he  ever  caught, — verifying  this 
by  capturing  that  very  day  as  large  and  fierce  a 
turtle  as  I  have  ever  seen.  It  would  fill  a  volume 
to  write  fully  of  a  spring-pond  in  winter.  It  is  one 
of  Nature's  hot-houses,  that  has  an  unvarying  tem- 
perature, and  so  a  supply  of  life  that  would  go  far 
to  populate  the  region  did  some  catastrophe  kill  all 
other  life. 

And  here,  while  basking  in  the  winter  sunshine, 
let  me  repeat  the  legend  of  King  Turtle  as  I  heard 
it  from  this  old  man  of  the  meadows,  the  last  of  our 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  249 

turtle-hunters,  old  Asa  Thornbush.  I  happened  to 
find  him  sitting  in  a  sheltered  nook,  dreaming  the 
morning  hours  away  in  the  delightfully  warm  winter 
sunshine.  As  I  approached  he  looked  up,  nodded, 
and  then  looked  away,  over  the  broad  expanse  of 
lowlands  and  the  shining  river  that  sparkled  as  it 
hurried  by  its  well-wooded  shores.  Although  I  was 
unnoticed  beyond  the  most  formal  recognition,  I  sat 
down  near  him  without  breaking  the  silence  for  a 
few  moments,  and  then  ventured  to  ask  him  of  what 
he  was  thinking. 

"  Of  other  times  than  these,  lad,  when  the  country 
wasn't  so  worn  out,"  he  replied,  and  continuing,  after 
a  brief  pause,  "there's  nothin'  much  left  now  but 
the  bare  ground.  No  huntin',  fishin',  or  goin'  after 
tortles.  It  was  as  much  fun  as  work  when  I  was  a 
lad,  and  no  comin'  back  empty-handed,  neither." 

I  was  glad  that  the  old  man  mentioned  "tortles," 
for  I  thought  immediately  of  the  old  story,  and 
asked  him  if  he  had  ever  caught  a  king  turtle. 

"  Ketch  him  !"  he  exclaimed.  "  Why,  lad,  there's 
only  one,  and  nobody  ever  ketched  him.  I've  seen 
him,  though." 

"Then,  won't  you  please  tell  me  when  and  where  ?" 
I  asked. 

Old  Thornbush  looked  at  me  with  an  uncomfort- 
ably searching  glance,  as  if  to  determine  why  I 
asked,  and  then  remarked, — 

"  It  was  well  on  to  forty  years  ago.  I  was  down 
at  the  big  bend  o'  the  creek,  where  the  elms  hang 
over  the  water,  baitin'  snapper  hooks,  and  I  heard, 


250  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

all  of  a  sudden,  a  hissin'  and  splashin'  ahead  o'  me, 
and,  lookin'  up,  I  see  the  king  tortle  standin'  up 
like,  in  the  water,  and  starin'  right  at  me.  His  head 
was  bigger' n  my  fist,  and  his  eyes  showed  all  the 
fire  that  was  in  'em.  I  was  more'n  taken  aback,  for 
sure,  and  'most  fell  out  o'  the  boat,  and  when  I 
looked  again,  I  seen  his  shell,  big  as  the  bottom  of 
a  wash-tub,  floatin'  on  the  water,  and  then  it  sank. 
I  knowed  it  was  no  use  settin'  hooks,  but  somehow 
I  went  on  kind  o'  dazed  like,  and  then  started  for 
home,  but  my  boat  wouldn't  move.  I  shoved  an 
oar  into  the  mud,  and  it  was  sort  o'  jerked  to  one 
side,  and  I  just  missed  goin'  overboard.  Then  I 
knowed  what  was  up  ;  old  King  Tortle  was  a-keepin' 
me.  I  got  weak  as  a  kitten,  when  all  of  a  sudden 
the  boat  shot  up  stream,  and  when  I  c'lected  my 
senses  I  set  to  rowin'  fast  as  my  arms  would  let  me." 

"Is  that  all?"  I  asked,  for  the  old  man  suddenly 
stopped  talking  and  looked  steadily  in  the  direction 
of  which  he  had  been  speaking,  for  the  old  elms  on 
the  creek  shore  were  plainly  in  view,  and  I  could 
see,  in  imagination,  all  that  he  described. 

" Ain't  it  enough?"  he  asked,  and  then  went  on 
as  if  there  had  been  no  interruption.  "  I  went  next 
mornin'  to  the  place,  and  there  wasn't  a  hook  on 
any  of  my  lines  and  not  many  o'  them.  Every  one 
was  cut  off  clean.  I  was  a  fool  to  leave  'em,  but 
somehow  thought  I  must,  and  I  think  the  king  tortle 
sort  o'  charms  you  like  a  sarpint  does  a  little  bird. 
Well,  just  as  I  was  gittin'  out  o'  the  place  the  old 
tortle  came  up  out  o'  the  water,  but  not  a-lookin'  as 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  251 

he  did  afore.  He  sort  o'  grinned,  with  his  mouth 
wide  open,  and  there  was  my  hooks  and  bits  o'  lines 
hung  round  his  chops  like  an  old  man's  beard." 

"Why  didn't  you  shoot  him?"  I  asked. 

"  Hadn't  no  gun  with  me  for  one  thing,  and 
wouldn't  'a'  dared  anyway.  Why,  lad,  he's  bullet- 
proof, 'course,  and  no  man  in  his  senses  is  goin'  to 
monkey  with  King  Tortle,  if  he  knows  it,"  and  old 
Thornbush  gave  me  a  look  of  mingled  contempt 
and  scorn  for  asking  such  a  silly  question. 

I  did  not  realize  at  the  time  the  force  of  the  con- 
viction in  the  old  man's  mind  as  to  what  he  had  been 
saying,  and  most  untimely,  therefore,  was  my  further 
remark  :  "  Do  you  really  expect  me  to  believe  all 
that?" 

Old  Thornbush's  eyes  showed  all  the  fire  that  was 
in  them.  He  looked  like  the  big  turtle  he  had  de- 
scribed, and  fairly  thundered,  "  B'lieve  it  or  not,  as 
you  choose  !  But  do  you  s'pose  I've  lived  here 
all  my  life  and  hunted  for  fifty  years  and  don't  know 
what  I'm  a-talkin'  about?  If  you  don't  b'lieve  it, 
go  tortlin'  on  your  own  hook  and  find  out,  and  I  bet 
you  don't  point  no  gun  at  King  Tortle,  if  he  shows 
up.  Why,  boy,  don't  you  know  that  tortle  purty 
nigh  killed  my  daddy?" 

I  saw  that  the  man  was  all  in  earnest.  With  him 
it  was  no  mere  yarn  to  please  children,  and  I  made 
amends  as  best  I  could.  I  mumbled  a  mollifying 
apology  and  the  clouds  passed  from  Thornbush's 
brow. 

It  looked  like  a  return  to  glacial  times  as  I  gazed 


252  BIRD- LAND  ECHOES. 

at  the  wide  expanse  of  snow-clad  meadow.  No  ice- 
bound continent  could  have  been  more  monotonous 
— I  will  not  say  dreary.  The  first  glance  reveals 
only  the  general  outline,  and  if  this  be  forbidding 
we  are  apt  all  too  quickly  to  turn  away.  For  the 
moment  I  saw  nothing  but  snow,  and  this  I  could 
see  anywhere  to-day.  But  what  is  that  dark  object 
by  the  willow  hedge  ?  It  moves  as  erratically  as  a 
ghost,  and  has  no  fixed  shape.  I  look  with  shaded 
eyes  and  follow  it  to  and  fro,  to  find  it  is  a  shadow, 
and  the  bird  that  casts  it  is  betwixt  the  meadow  and 
the  sun.  So  the  meadows,  then,  had  their  comple- 
ment of  life.  Ah,  how  little  we  see,  even  when 
fully  bent  upon  seeing !  The  shadow  was  of  a 
noble  black  hawk  ;  soon  it  came  sailing  into  view, 
and  not  without  a  purpose  did  it  skirt  the  broad 
expanse  where  the  willows  grew.  Not  too  near,  for 
that  would  frighten  all  the  small  deer  that  he  sought. 
There  was  not  a  willow-tree  in  sight  but  had  a 
mouse's  nest  at  its  base,  and  every  mouse  would  be 
curious  to-day  concerning  the  weather,  and  would 
creep  from  the  warm  nest  in  the  ground  up  the  tree- 
trunk,  that  it  might  have  a  sun-bath.  Cunning  black 
hawk  !  Unfortunate  meadow-mice  !  And  how  the 
tree-sparrows  pitch  and  tumble  out  of  the  way  as 
the  huge  hawk  swoops  near  by !  He  is  not  after 
them,  but  this  they  do  not  know ;  and  so  I  miss 
their  merry  chatter  when  the  willow  hedge  is  reached, 
unless  indeed  they  come  back,  for  confidence  re- 
turns when  enemies  are  out  of  sight.  Sparrows 
place  no  sentinels,  and  so  are  easily  surprised.  Evo- 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  253 

lution  has  not  yet  made  them  what  they  should  be, 
a  little  wiser  in  their  day  and  generation.  But  the 
hawk  has  gone.  Far-sighted  and  quick-witted  crows 
have  spied  him  out,  and  give  him  no  peace.  Their 
cries  accord  with  the  wild  outlook  of  the  day,  and 
no  one  should  ask  for  sweeter  music.  It  is  as  deep 
as  the  baying  of  the  hound  which  many  profess  to 
fancy ;  and  how  full  of  meaning  are  these  battle- 
cries  from  far  overhead  !  for  the  hawk  has  risen  to  a 
great  height,  but  not  so  high  that  the  crows  cannot 
look  down  and  pounce  upon  him. 

Why  is  it  that  there  is  always  a  quarrel  when  crows 
find  a  hawk  ?  These  birds  lead  very  different  lives. 
There  is  no  real  clashing  of  interests.  Are  the  crows 
jealous  because  not  quick  enough  to  catch  a  mouse  ? 
I  do  not  find  that  crows  annoy  other  large  birds. 
In  a  little  wood,  filling  a  sink-hole  in  an  upland  field, 
was  a  heronry.  Five  pairs  of  green  herons  nested 
there,  and  each  pair  raised  their  brood.  During  the 
early  summer,  when  the  young  birds  were  small  and 
helpless,  crows  continually  came  and  went,  but  never 
offered  to  molest  the  young,  and  never  chased  the 
old  birds.  I  watched  the  spot  for  five  months, 
almost  daily,  and  saw  only  evidence  of  good  will. 
Late  in  August  there  were  more  than  twenty  herons 
nightly  roosting  there  ;  all  day  long  they  were  con- 
tinually passing  to  and  fro  from  the  sink-hole  to  the 
meadow,  and  it  was  seldom  that  a  heron  made  the 
trip  without  meeting  a  crow.  They  may  have  nodded 
good-naturedly  in  passing ;  nothing  further  ever  oc- 
curred, I  am  sure.  But  in  November,  when  the 

22 


254  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

leaves  had  fallen  and  the  hawks  had  come  down 
from  the  mountains  or  wherever  they  had  passed 
the  summer,  not  one  of  them  could  rest  for  a  mo- 
ment in  the  trees  if  a  crow  happened  to  notice  him. 
Immediately  the  alarm  would  be  sounded,  and  a 
dozen  crows,  suddenly  appearing,  would  chase  the 
hawk  away. 

It  was  but  a  short  distance  from  the  willow  hedge 
to  the  river-bank,  but  the  stranger  to-day  could 
scarcely  have  detected  where  the  dry  land  ended 
and  the  river  flowed.  It  was  as  uniformly  white  and 
snow-clad  as  the  meadows  over  which  I  had  passed. 
Yet  there  was  a  break.  A  long,  low  line,  shown  by 
the  abrupt  change  of  level  of  the  snow,  meant  the 
edge  of  the  frozen  river, — frozen  now  so  firmly  that 
horses  might  safely  have  crossed.  It  was  here  that 
nature  was  most  suggestive  to-day.  Here  were  both 
ice  and  snow,  and  the  apparently  level  reach  of  the 
river  was  not  so  very  smooth.  Uplifted  cakes,  many 
feet  square,  of  thick  ice  made  rough  travelling  for 
many  a  rod,  and  often  effectually  barred  the  way. 
Thoreau  remarked  after  reading  Kane's  Arctic  travels 
that  he  had  seen  much  the  same  phenomena  as  are 
there  described  about  Concord.  I  thought  of  this 
while  walking  on  the  river.  It  was  no  mere  frozen 
surface  of  a  shallow  stream,  but  ice  that  bridged  a 
valley,  and  so  far  more  dangerous  to  loiter  over.  A 
wide  crack  here  and  there  revealed  what  changes 
had  been  wrought,  for  the  channel  was  almost  dry, 
and,  dropping  down  a  weighted  line,  I  found  that  I 
was  forty  feet  above  the  river's  bed  and  quite  thirty 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  255 

feet  above  high  tide.  The  waters  had  found  for 
themselves  a  new  channel  for  the  time,  and  the  ice 
held  back  the  tide  to  a  great  extent.  It  was,  in 
short,  the  Ice  Age  come  again.  How  glibly  we  talk 
of  the  Glacial  period  ! — how  little  we  know  of  it ! 
But  to-day  taught  something.  The  world  here  had 
taken  a  step  backward,  and  showed  how  it  was  when 
man  first  stood  upon  the  glacial  river's  banks.  There 
were  no  walruses  nor  musk-ox,  it  is  true,  nor  mas- 
todon browsing  on  the  sweet  birch  branches ;  but 
then  in  a  sunny  open  spot,  scarcely  a  mile  away, 
there  was  a  seal.  To-day  the  ice  had  little  or  no 
mud  or  gravel  held  in  its  tight  embrace,  but  I  found 
here  and  there  a  pebble  or  slight  trace  of  sand,  and 
this  was  the  key  to  the  problem  of  whence  came 
all  the  wide  gravelly  area,  with  its  huge  boulders 
and  its  deep  deposits  of  clean,  gritty  sand.  With 
them  are  mingled  bones  of  animals,  extinct,  or  found 
only  in  the  Arctic  regions ;  and  man,  too,  has  left 
unmistakable  traces  of  himself.  Even  his  bones  are 
not  wanting  in  the  great  gravel  deposits  laid  down 
in  other  days,  when  winter  was  longer  than  summer, 
when  there  was  more  storm  than  sunshine,  more 
snow  than  rain,  when  to  all  appearances  we  were 
nearer  the  North  Pole  than  now. 

Be  it  ever  so  exciting  as  we  progress,  the  return 
journey  is  painfully  commonplace.  Retracing  my 
steps,  I  gladly  knocked  at  Overfield's  cottage  door, 
and  entered  when  I  heard  his  gruff  "  Come."  To 
him  I  told  my  story  of  the  day,  and  he  grunted 
dissent  from  every  boastful  statement.  The  river 


256  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

was  not  as  he  had  seen  it  in  his  day.  No,  of 
course  not.  No  octogenarian  admits  that  the  world 
is  ever  now  as  he  has  known  it.  Perhaps  it  is 
not ;  but,  even  if  born  too  late,  I  had  had  a  pleasant 
walk. 

With  what  silent  fingers  does  the  frost  build  up 
its  crystal  mazes  !  The  clear  sky,  the  unveiled  moon, 
the  still  air,  all  gave  their  aid,  and  slowly  through 
the  lone  hours  of  the  night  the  dainty  frost-work 
was  left  upon  every  twig  in  the  woods,  every  blade 
and  seed-pod  in  the  meadows,  every  weed  and  bush 
in  the  upland  fields.  Not  a  vine-clad  fence  was 
neglected  :  all  the  landscape  was  decked  with  jewels 
awaiting  the  sunrise  of  that  gladdest  of  all  days, — 
Christmas.  The  light  that  had  for  hours  made  the 
sleeping  earth  so  beautiful  now  took  to  itself  a  rosy 
tint.  The  gray  east  grew  white  as  the  snow,  and 
the  frost-crystals  in  their  beauty  shone  with  a  defiant 
glow,  as  if  they  challenged  the  approach  of  day, 
and  then,  as  the  sun  rose,  glittered,  as  if  in  anger, 
red  as  rubies ;  then  cast  a  summer-warm  green 
light,  and  at  last,  struggling  still  not  to  be  excelled, 
sparkled  as  diamonds.  Never  had  Christmas  seen 
a  more  glorious  sunrise.  The  earth  was  reclothed, 
and,  as  I  passed  into  the  woods,  I  did  not  miss  the 
leaves. 

The  trees  bore  other  fruit,  and  the  handiwork  of 
the  night  demands  attention  before  the  envious  day 
destroys  it.  As  eager  children  in-doors  were  strip- 
ping their  trees,  so  soon  would  the  sunlight  tear 
from  every  twig  its  dainty,  unsubstantial  jewels.  It 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  257 

mattered  little  where  I  stopped,  these  riches  for  the 
eye  were  everywhere.  Yet  there  was  variety.  The 
holly  does  not  shed  its  leaves,  and  what  a  spectacle 
that  one  lone  tree,  laden  with  crimson  berries  !  Be- 
yond, in  a  little  clearing  left  by  the  wood-choppers 
years  ago,  the  creeping  blackberry  matted  the  whole 
space,  and  every  leaf  was  ruddy.  The  mullein, 
hibernating  in  a  velvet  gown,  looked  fresh  as  a  May 
morning.  The  little  beeches  held  fast  to  their  golden 
leaves,  and  each  was  encased  in  crystal.  Even  the 
bubbling  spring  looked  up  with  a  shining  face,  and 
in  its  depths  waved  green  growths, — a  little  flooded 
meadow.  Christmas  by  the  almanac,  but  where  was 
winter?  From  a  long  line  of  low  bushes  which 
replaced  a  fence  that  had  crumbled  before  the  mem- 
ory of  living  man  came  the  clear,  hopeful  notes,  the 
hearty  good-will  notes,  of  many  a  winter  songster, 
and  we  have  many  of  them.  The  song-sparrow  that 
made  merry  in  the  mornings  of  May  was  no  less 
happy  now  on  its  frosty  perch.  The  chickadee  was 
not  content  with  merely  lisping  its  happiness,  but 
sang  those  clear  phe-bee  notes  that  are  among  the 
sweetest  of  all  winter  sounds.  It  is  an  expression 
of  satisfaction  with  the  world  that  few  people,  I 
fancy,  can  conscientiously  repeat.  It  is  the  only 
known  bird-song  that  indicates  perfect  happiness, 
and  yet  our  mere  description  goes  for  nothing.  The 
bird  must  be  seen  as  well  as  heard.  Indeed,  this  is 
true  of  all  the  out-door  world.  How  tame  are  the 
brightest  pages  of  our  out-door  books  in  comparison 
with  an  hour's  ramble  among  the  scenes  we  venture 

r  22* 


258 


BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 


to  describe  !  The  shadows  fall  upon  the  pages,  dis- 
tinct at  times,  far  oftener  obscure ;  but  the  real 
thing,  the  living  fact,  as  yet  defies  our  language. 
This  very  song  of  the  passing  chickadee  will  fall  upon 
deaf  ears ;  the  bird  itself  will  flit  before  closed  eyes, 
in  spite  of  all  description  and  the  rambler's  urgency 
that  you  go  abroad  and  look  and  listen. 


Horned  Lark  and  Redpoll. 

I  had  crossed  a  wide  field  before  I  entered  the 
woods  and  saw  the  horned  larks,  and  the  question 
arises,  Is  it  better  to  see  birds  and  not  hear  them  or 
hear  and  not  see  them  ?  It  was  pleasant  to  watch 
them  running  over  the  snow  and  sometimes  plunging 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  259 

into  it,  when,  as  it  appeared,  they  trod  upon  some 
treacherous  crust  gathered  about  a  low,  projecting 
twig.  These  beautiful  birds  were,  of  course,  not 
actually  silent,  but  not  every  sound  that  comes 
from  a  bird's  throat  can  be  called  a  song.  I  have 
held  that  there  is  music  in  the  cawing  of  a  crow, 
but  I  draw  the  line  at  my  neighbor's  peacock.  The 
horned  larks  were  more  than  usually  timid  this 
morning,  and  were  quite  forgotten  when  I  reached 
the  woods. 

Later,  as  the  shadows  shortened  and  every  frost- 
gem  faded  from  the  sunny  fields,  the  crested  tit,  that 
embodiment  of  grace,  mischief,  and  music,  came 
upon  the  scene.  No  author  has  yet  done  this  grand 
bird  justice.  It  has  not  been  classed  among  the 
song-birds  proper  by  those  who  must  have  the  clamor 
of  a  brass  band  ringing  in  their  ears  while  they  write 
of  music.  Perhaps  it  is  not  a  song-bird,  but  had  it 
ever  strayed  to  the  wooded  slopes  of  Walden  pond, 
Thoreau  would  have  given  it  a  bright  page  in  our 
literature.  Not  a  song-bird,  perhaps  ;  but  let  that 
merry  whistle  sound  through  the  leafless  branches  of 
the  old  oaks,  ring  through  the  maze  of  uplifted  limbs 
of  the  beeches,  or  tremble  along  the  weedy  tangles 
of  neglected  nooks,  and  your  winter  day  needs  no 
further  life  to  make  it  full  as  the  overflowing  sum- 
mer. Heard  to-day,  it  is  a  Christmas  carol  as  full 
of  meaning  as  the  best  thought  of  a  poet's  cunning 
brain.  There  is  many  another  of  these  cold-defying 
birds,  yet  how  few  know  them  !  Kinglets  that  lisp 
their  happiness  in  the  face  of  a  north  wind  ;  a  wren 


260  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

and  tree-creeper  and  nuthatches  that  do  not  huddle 
on  the  south  side  of  the  oaks  and  forever  fret  if  there 
be  no  sunshine  ;  finches  that  chirp  among  the  trees, 
cheerful  as  their  cousins  that  cling  to  thistles  in 
August,  creatures  as  dainty  as  the  summer  breezes 
that  bore  their  sweet  songs  across  the  hot  fields  and 
down  the  dusty  highways.  Is  there  not  abundant 
reason  why  all  of  Christmas  should  not  be  spent 
in-doors?  I  have  in  mind  a  Christmas  morning, 
crystal  clear,  when  I  stood  by  an  old  elm  that  held 
aloft  a  perfect  labyrinth  of  interlacing  branches  that 
barred  the  sky  beyond  like  the  close  grating  of  a 
prison  window,  and  while  I  looked  at  the  elm  and 
wondered  where  might  be  hidden  the  birds  that  I 
heard,  but  could  not  see,  suddenly  there  appeared  a 
host  of  wee,  crimson-fronted  linnets,  that  sang  with 
ardor  all  their  simple  songs.  There  was  no  half- 
hearted chirping,  nor  one  languid  movement  Had 
they  caught  the  spirit  of  this  magic  date  ?  A  mere 
coincidence,  of  course,  but  what  a  pitiful  fate  to  be 
born  with  no  imagination  !  Merely  a  bird's  song  to 
you  ;  but  why  not  hear  it  as  a  veritable  Christmas 
greeting  and  be  glad  ? 

Before  the  sparkle  of  the  early  morning  had  van- 
ished I  was  well  on  my  way  down  the  lone  wood- 
path,  and  reached  the  unsheltered  glade  where  once 
had  been  a  cottage.  The  grass  was  yet  green,  and  the 
prince's  pine  was  as  lush  as  the  rankest  of  midsum- 
mer growths.  The  old  hermit  of  Nottingham  spent 
many  a  Christmas  here,  and  died  here  on  Christmas 
day  just  fifty  years  ago.  The  birds  of  the  wildwood 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  261 

were  his  only  friends,  and  not  one  of  them,  it  is 
said,  feared  him.  They  came  and  went  in  and  out 
his  open  door,  and  not  even  his  old  dog  thought 
of  raising  a  paw  against  them.  The  day  before  the 
old  man  closely  scanned  the  sky,  and,  turning, 
said,  "Pudge,  old  dog,  it's  as  sure  to  be  a  green 
Christmas  to-morrow  as  that  you  are  ugly."  The 
dog  took  it  all  in  good  part,  and  barked  assent  to  his 
master's  decision. 

"And  we'll  have  the  red-bird  whistle  and  the 
blue-jay  laugh,  and  you  can  dance  in  the  sunshine 
to  their  music,  if  you  choose  ;  as  for  me,  I'll — "  and 
the  old  man  stopped  at  this  point  and  gazed  intently 
down  the  path.  Pudge  looked  in  the  same  direction, 
but  saw  nothing  to  bark  at. 

"  How  weak  I  am  to  be  forever  fancying  she  may 
come  again  !"  muttered  the  old  man  ;  and  he  turned 
towards  the  door  of  the  cottage,  nor  looked  again 
about  him  as  he  crossed  the  threshold. 

It  was  a  clear,  glittering,  frost-gemmed  Christmas 
morning,  as  the  hermit  had  predicted.  The  car- 
dinal grosbeak  whistled  as  never  before,  the  blue- 
jays  chattered,  the  song-sparrows  sang,  the  crested 
tit  and  golden-crowned  kinglet  made  merry,  and  the 
stately  ruffed  grouse,  the  old  man's  "pheasants," 
came,  like  chickens,  close  to  his  door,  full  of  ex- 
pectation of  a  hearty  meal ;  but  the  old  man  did 
not  appear  to  welcome  them,  nor  did  the  old  dog 
bark  as  he  had  done  for  years.  The  feast  of  seeds 
and  crumbs  that  were  daily  scattered  was  not  ready 
for  the  birds  to-day,  and  it  was  Christmas,  too. 


262  BIRD-LAND  ECHOES. 

At  noon  a  neighbor,  bearing  a  letter,  knocked  at 
the  door,  but  there  was  no  response,  and,  forcing  the 
latch,  he  found  the  hermit  staring  at  the  fireplace 
with  sightless  eyes,  and  Pudge,  the  old  dog,  sleeping 
his  last  sleep. 

The  cottage  is  gone  ;  the  wild  growths  are  en- 
croaching upon  the  little  glade  ;  lightning  long  since 
killed  the  stately  oak  that  sheltered  the  old  man's 
home  ;  but  the  story  of  the  gentle  hermit  still  re- 


Ruffed  Grouse. 

mains,  I  think,  handed  down,  year  after  year,  by 
every  bird  of  the  old  woods,  for  here  they  gather  to 
sing  their  sweetest  songs,  and  here,  this  sparkling, 
sunny,  merry  Christmas  morning,  I  found  them,  red- 
birds  and  jays,  nuthatches,  tits,  and  the  Carolina  wren, 
and  all  seemed  calling  to  the  old  man  to  scatter  seeds 
and  crumbs,  as  years  ago  he  had  done,  that  they, 
too,  as  well  as  the  dwellers  in-doors,  might  have  a 
merry  Christmas. 


WITH  THE  WINTER  BIRDS.  263 

My  outing  days  are  well-nigh  over.  What  I 
have  seen  in  the  past  will  but  seldom  be  repeated 
in  my  future.  In  the  cooped  confines  of  a  busy 
town  I  shall  often  recall  you,  my  feathered  friends, 
and  long  for  you.  Thrice  happy  birds,  hail  and 
farewell ! 


INDEX. 


A. 

"Accidental     visitors,"     occur- 
rence of,  53. 
Alleghany  Mountains,  region  of, 

53- 

Ant,  203. 

Apollo  Belvidere,  28. 
April,  peculiarities  of  month  of, 

3°,  33,  38>  46,  151,  190- 
August,  nesting  of  birds  in,  31. 

water-birds  in,  200. 
Azaleas,  81. 

B. 

Bats,  229. 

Beech-trees,  44,  257. 
Bees,  128. 
Beetles,  128,  203. 

Tiger,  204. 
Birch,  Black,  153,  178. 

Water,  29. 

White,  57,  153. 

Birds,    geographical    nomenclat- 
ure of,  74. 

migration  of,  32,  42. 
Bittern,  164. 

Least,  30. 

Bittersweet,  climbing,  140,  244. 
Blackbird,   Red-winged,  30,  63, 

I56. 

Blossom  storm,  64. 
Blueberries,  34. 


Bluebird,  83,  132,  190. 
Bluebirds,  31,  in,  131,  138. 
Boneset,  140. 
Bunting,  Bay-winged,  24. 

Snow,  50. 
Butter-balls,  165. 
Butterflies,  13,  128,  203. 

C. 

Canada,  54. 

Canary,  28. 

Cardinal  Grosbeak,  55,  97,  261. 

Cassin,  John,  quoted,  231. 

Cat-bird,   82,   89,   99,    III,   156, 

166. 

Cat-tail,  29. 
Cedar,  fruit  of,  87. 
Cedar-bird,  134. 
Centaury,  134. 
Chat,  Yellow-breasted,  66. 
Chatterer,  Bohemian,  50. 
Cherry,  82. 
Cherry-tree,  134. 
Chewink,  33,  90,  149. 

nest  of,  36. 
Chickadee,  243,  257. 
Chipmunk,  149. 
' '  Chippy. "     (See  Sparrow. ) 
Coot,  169. 
Cram,   W.    E.,   quoted,    15,   47, 

50,   113,    143,    174,    179,    184, 

236,  238. 
23  265 


266 


INDEX. 


Cranes,  158,  172. 

Crickets,  47,  81. 

Cross-bills,  48,  51. 

Crosswicks  Creek,  169. 

Crow,  no,  139,  173,  216,  253, 

259. 

"Crow  Duck,"  169. 
Cuckoo,  106,  136,  143. 
Curlew,  203. 

D. 

Dabchick,  149. 

Daffodils,  132. 

Dahlia,  133. 

Delaware   River,  valley  of,  53, 

73- 

Devil-divers,  169. 
Diver,  156,  166. 

Great  Northern,  173. 
Dodder,  140. 
Dog- wood,  81. 
Dragon-flies,  128. 
Duck,  Black,  166. 

Pintail,  194. 

Wild,  149,  156,  165. 

Wood,  166. 
Duck  Island,  wading  birds  on, 

202,  209. 

E. 

Eagle,  13. 

Eared  Grebe,  170. 

F. 

Falcon,  Rough-legged,  226. 
"Feather-boots,"  226. 
February,  birds  of,  38,  156. 
1  'Field"  -lark,  152. 
Finch,  Gold,  47. 
Grass,  24. 


Finch,  Grasshopper,  24. 

Pine,  260. 

Sharp-tailed,  33. 

Thistle,  1 8. 
Finches,  260. 
Fish,  13. 

Flagg,  Wilson,  quoted,  118. 
Flicker,  180,  184. 
Flirt-tail,  56. 
Flycatcher,  Great-crested,  228. 

Olive-sided,  102,  113. 

Scissor-tailed,  114. 

Yellow-bellied,  114. 
Flycatchers,  102. 
Frogs,  13. 

G. 

Gallinule,  169. 
Godwit,  203. 
Goldfinch,  47. 
Grasshoppers,  229. 
Grebe,  149. 

Eared,  170. 
Greenbrier,  149,  244. 

fruit  of,  87. 
Grosbeak,  Cardinal,  55,  97,  261. 

Pine,  48,  53. 

Rose-breasted,  22,  35,  55,  99. 
Grosbeaks,  153. 
Grouse,  Ruffed,  261. 
Guinea-fowl,  215. 
Gull,  13. 

Herring,  171. 

H. 

Harrier,  213. 

Hawk,  Black,  226,  252. 

Cooper's,  220. 

Fish,  217. 

Marsh,  225. 


INDEX. 


267 


Hawk,  Red-tailed,  216,  222. 

Sharp-shinned,  217. 

Sparrow,  228. 
Hawks,  41. 

character  of,  211. 

habits  of,  212. 

value  of,  212. 
Heart's-ease,  132. 
Heron,  Blue,  158. 

Little  Green,  158,  253. 

Night,  163. 

White,  158. 
Hickory-tree,  150. 
Holly  Beach,  winter  birds  at,  54. 
Hollyhocks,  133. 
Humming-birds,  128. 

I. 

Indian  trail,  old,  153. 

village   sites,    bones   of   birds 

found  at,  209. 
Ivy,  52. 

fruit  of  poison,  87. 

J- 

Jay,  244. 

Blue,  245,  261. 
Joe-Pye  weed,  140. 

K. 

Kingbird,  31,  108,  120. 
Kingfisher,  149,  153. 
Kinglet,  143. 

Golden-crowned,  146,  261. 

Ruby-crowned,  145. 
Kinglets,  259. 
King-rail,  30. 

L. 

Lark,  244. 
"Field,"  152. 


Lark,  Horned,  258. 

Meadow,  150. 

"Outlook,"  152. 
Larks,  139. 
Laurel,  149. 
Lehigh  hills,  196. 
Lilacs,  128. 

Linnet,  Crimson-fronted,  260. 
Lizard's- tail,  140. 
Lockwood,  Samuel,  quoted,  43. 
Log-cock,  185. 

Long  Island,  Grosbeaks  on,  54- 
Long-spur,  48. 
Loon,  149,  174. 

M. 

Mallow,  Rose,  29. 
Maple,  Red,  174. 
March,  birds  of,  156. 

bird-songs  heard  in,  38. 
Marten,  119. 

May,  abundance  of  birds  in,  69. 
May-day,  birds  of,  57. 
Meadow-lark,  150. 
Mice,  149. 

Meadow,  152,  252. 
Mocking-bird,  101. 
Musk-rats,  149,  173. 

N. 
New  Jersey,  Arctic  birds  in,  48. 

pine  forests  of,  53. 

winter  birds  of,  33. 
Night-hawk,  102,  124. 
Nottingham,  hermit  of,  260. 
Nuthatch,  8,  61,  143. 

Red-bellied,  144. 

White-bellied,  143. 
Nuthatches,  119,  142,  260. 
Nuttall,  Thomas,  quoted,  205. 


268 


INDEX. 


o. 

Oak,  178. 
Opossum,  17,  177. 
Oriole,  97,  128. 
Otters,  149. 
Oven-bird,  66,  149. 

peculiar  habits  of,  70. 
Overfield,  Miles,  quoted,  241, 
Owl,  Barn,  231,  235. 

Barred,  231,  235. 

Cat,  231. 

Great  Horned,  231. 

Hawk,  231. 

Long- eared,  231. 

Marsh,  231. 

Monkey,  236. 

Saw-whet,  232. 

Screech,  237. 

Snowy,  48,  230,  238. 
Owls,  229. 

P. 

Peabody-bird,  44,  247. 
Peacock,  259. 
Pear-tree,  128. 
"Peeps,"  203. 
Pelicans,  172. 
Pewee,  102. 

Wood,  26,  102,  103. 
Phalarope,  205. 
Phlox,  133. 
Pickerel- weed,  171. 
Pine-finch,  46,  260. 
Pine-grosbeak,  48,  53. 
Plover,  Bull-head,  203. 

Killdeer,  189,  205. 

Piping,  204. 

Upland,  195. 
Poke,  fruit  of,  87. 
Poppy,  132. 
Primrose,  English,  133. 


Q. 

Quince-tree,  128. 
"Quoks,"  158,  163. 

R. 

Rail,  13,  190. 

King,  30. 

Red-bird  (Cardinal),  261. 
Redpoll,  48,  258. 
Redstart,  59,  66,  156. 
Redstarts,  abundance  of,  79. 

nesting  of,  79. 
Reed-bird,  13,  31. 
Rice,  wild,  29. 
Robin,  17,  82,  85,  182. 
Rose-breast.     (See  Grosbeak.) 
Rose-mallow,  29. 
Rose,  yellow,  132. 
Rut-runner,  24. 

S. 

Sanderling,  202,  206. 
Sand-piper,  13. 

Solitary,  193. 

Spotted,  190. 

Tilting,  149. 

Scudder,  S.  H.,  quoted,  108. 
Shrew,  178. 
Shrike,  143. 
Skull-cap,  141. 
Snipe,  English,  189. 
Snow-bird,  20,  37,  39,  142. 
Snow-bunting,  48,  50. 
Sora,  190. 
Sparrow,  13. 

Chipping,  23,  27,  33,  83,  138. 

English,    82,    131,    138,    220, 
229. 

Field,  in. 

Fox-colored,  37. 


INDEX. 


.  269 


Sparrow,  "Foxie,"  38. 

Savanna,  31. 

Song,    19,   33,   55,    133,    190, 
257,  261. 

Swamp,  29. 

Tree,  19,  37,  252. 

Vesper,  19,  20.  24,  125,  153. 

White-throated,    19,    37,    44, 

247. 

Sparrows,  17,  86,  in,  152,  178. 
Spatterdock,  171. 
Spiraeas,  133. 
Squirrel,  13,  59,  178. 

Flying,  17. 
Storm,  blossom,  64. 

"Yearly  Meeting,"  64. 
Storms,  effect  of,  65. 
Swallow,  Bank,  119. 

Barn,  120,  123,  156. 

Cliff,  119. 

White-bellied,  122. 
Swallows,  102,  1 1 8. 
Swamp-robin,  33. 

T. 

Tanager,  in. 

Tattler,  Yellow-legged,  199. 

Teeter  Til  tup,  190. 

Terns,  172. 

Thistle,  47. 

Thoreau,    H.    D.,    quoted,     82, 

254,  259. 

Thornbush,  Asa,  quoted,  249. 
Thrasher,  94,  99. 
Thrush,  22,  35. 

Hermit,  100. 

Wood,  98,  157. 
Thrushes,  153. 
Tit,  Crested,  99,   148,  246,  259, 

261. 


Tree-creeper,  86,  178,  260. 

Tree-toad,  19,  106. 

Turtle,  King,  legend  of,  248. 

V. 

Vesper-sparrow,  19,  20,  24,  125, 

153- 

Violets,  181. 
Vireo,  Philadelphia,  116. 

Red-eyed,  79,  106,  117. 

White-eyed,  117. 

Yellow-throated,  Il8. 
Vireos,  102,  116,  149. 

W. 

Walden  Pond,  82,  259. 
Warbler,  Bay-breasted,  69. 

Black-throated  Blue,  58. 
Green,  67. 

Chestnut-sided,  58,  65. 

Hooded,  69. 

Parula,  69. 

Pine,  69. 

Pine-creeping,  68. 

Red-polled,  56. 

Spotted,  69. 

Worm- eating,  69. 

Yellow-rumped,  60. 
Warblers,  66,  in,  149. 
Warren,  B.  H.,  quoted,  206. 
Weasel,  17. 
Whippoorwill,  125. 
White-throats.     (See  Sparrow.) 
Willow,  128. 
Wind-flower,  8l. 
Woodpecker,  Downy,  176,  184. 

Golden- winged,  89,  176,  179. 

Hairy,  184. 

Pileated,  185. 

Red-headed,  184. 


23* 


INDEX. 


Woodpecker,  Three-toed,  184. 

Yellow-bellied,  183. 
Wood-pewee,  26. 
Wren,  Carolina,  54,  75,  91,  147, 
228,  246,  262. 

House,  83,  137. 

Marsh,  30. 


Wren,  Winter,  86,  143,  146. 
Wrens,  99,  ill,  132. 

Y. 

"Yearly  Meeting"  storm,  64. 
Yellow-legs,  187. 
Yellow-throat,  Maryland,  66,  74. 


THE    END. 


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